


Redbeard

by jcporter1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 61,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcporter1/pseuds/jcporter1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seeing a video on YouTube of Sherlock telling Anderson "How he did it."  John has to re-evaluate his status.  He remembers bits of things. Donovan: "You're not his friend, he doesn't have friends, so who are you?<br/>Mycroft had remarked: "You are very loyal, very quickly."<br/>Moriarty had put it best at the swimming pool:  "People and their pets."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Redbeard

Sherlock was tired.

He had spent the last 12 hours shadowing a suspect; one of two credit thieves who installed code scanners in pin card readers.  Not much of a case, just waiting and watching, but he wasn’t sleeping all that well in his vacant flat and he wanted to keep busy.  After following his suspect to a pub and watching him chat up a local girl for two hours he had then followed the couple back to her house.  Not knowing for sure if the man would meet up with his partner after, Sherlock wasted the rest of the night huddling in the doorway across the street.  Once the sun came up he followed the suspect first to a deli for a fry-up and then on to a run-down flat in an East End apartment building.    As Sherlock pulled his motorcycle up onto its kickstand outside 221B, he resolved that tonight he would follow the partner.  He was older and had a live-in girlfriend; much more likely to keep regular hours. 

When Sherlock opened the door to his flat, he noticed the gas fireplace was on.  He hesitated.  There was a clink of ceramic from his kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson?”  He called as he wrapped his scarf around the coat rack.  “Did you bring up breakfast?  I wouldn’t say no to toast and egg.”

“Just tea, Sherlock.”  John stood in the kitchen with two mugs. 

“John.  What are you doing here?”  He accepted a cup gratefully, and sat in his chair, fighting back a yawn.  “Is there something I can do for you?”  He sipped the tea, trying not to gulp.  It was just as he liked it. He had often noticed that tea was best when John made it.  Since John had moved in with Mary, Sherlock usually settled for a to-go cup from Speedy’s.  His own efforts were always so disappointing.

John’s laptop was open and humming;  sitting on the side table by John’s chair. It was turned so that with a little effort Sherlock could see the screen.  It was open to John’s blog, and Sherlock could see his face in a queued up you-tube video. 

God.  What now?

“Is there something you can do for me?”  John had that smile; the one Sherlock hated.  Open mouthed, a flash of teeth, lips turned up at both corners, it even extended to the crow’s feet and the lifted eyebrows bracketing John's eyes, but the eyes themselves were like flint.  ‘Nothing  the least bit fucking funny here’ those eyes said.   John appearing happy and furious at the same time unnerved Sherlock.

“Something happened.”  Sherlock guessed, and set his tea down on the corner of his desk.  “What?”

“This happened, Sherlock.”  John hit the left click bar on his laptop and the YouTube video started to play.  John considerately turned it so Sherlock was unable to avoid it without getting out of his chair.  Sherlock felt a chill.  It was the video Anderson had made of Sherlock sitting on his couch and telling the world how he had survived the fall.   

Sherlock was confused.  Why were they watching this? John hated to speak of that time.  Sherlock hated to see how upset it made John. 

“Yes.  I’ve seen this John.  I was there. “

“Oh.  So you were there.”  John paused the video and smiled even broader at Sherlock.  “These are your words then?  Not edited?” John clicked on the play arrow.

Sherlock listened.  No that was him.  “Yes.  That is me speaking.  Those are my words.  But John, must we…”

“So this is you?”  John slid the volume bar to the extreme right and listened with a cocked head, as though it was a bit of fine Northern Soul .

                ‘We planned everything.  Mycroft fed information to Moriarty, and we waited for him to show his hand.  There were 13 possible scenarios and we had a code word for each. “ 

Sherlock’s ears were hot on the sides of his head.  He leaned forward to stop the video.

“Don’t touch it.  This is the good part.”  John said and his voice was fairly jovial.

                ‘…every eventuality allowed for.  It worked perfectly.”

“John.”  Sherlock pleaded.  John held a finger to his lips to demand silence.

                ‘How did you keep the sniper from shooting John?’  It was Anderson’s voice.

                ‘Mycroft’s men intervened.  He was invited to reconsider.’   

John stopped the video there and straightened up. 

“There.  That part.  You never told me that part, Sherlock.”

 John began to pace back and forth, keeping his chair between them, as if having it’s high back to grab on to kept him from launching himself at Sherlock.  Sherlock leaned back and tried to look vulnerable.  John had taken a Hippocratic Oath at some point, one would imagine.  If Sherlock stayed very still, maybe he could avoid the attack.

“You had a plan.  You and Mycroft planned everything.  I was never in any danger.”  John stopped, his back to Sherlock, facing the door, as if he might just leave.  “The street closed down…like a play…all those people, in on it.”  His breath was ragged.  Sherlock leaned forward, his hands pressed together in  supplication.

 “I’m sorr….”

“Every night, every time I closed my eyes, you were falling.  And every time I would run as fast as I could to get to the sidewalk and I would catch you.  Sherlock.  Every night I would catch you and you would look at me like I was amazing and we would laugh.”

John turned to flash another smile at Sherlock. Like he was waiting for Sherlock to get the joke. 

“And then I would wake up and you would be dead again.  Every day.  I didn’t think I would make it.”

“It was hard on me too John.”

“No more words, Sherlock.  No more lies.”  John leaned over and closed his laptop.  “Someone posted your confession on my blog.  I went back then, looking at my notes from that time.  Mycroft kidnapped me to tell me about the snipers.  You two were planning as far back as that.  Before the kids were abducted from the school.  You two were putting ideas in my head.  Getting me ready.“

“Sit down, John.  Let me explain.”

“You don’t have to.  Moriarty already explained it to me when he wrapped me up in explosives.  I’m your pet.  You don’t have to explain your actions to your dog.”

John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a coil of leather.  Sherlock had the uncomfortable feeling that he had seen it before.  He tossed it into Sherlock’s lap. 

“I called on your mum.  She said you had one pet in your whole life.  Redbeard, right?   A Red Setter.  You and he were the best of friends, at least according to your mum.  She gave me the leash to give to you. “

Sherlock rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the cracking surface of the leash.  A childish “Redbeard” had been scratched into it with a penknife.  He recalled working on his desk, marking up the wood when the point of the knife slipped. 

“She gave me the collar too.  But I’m keeping that for myself.”

 John unbuttoned the top button on his shirt.  Tight around his neck was the matching leather collar for the leash.  Sherlock couldn’t miss the brass oval riveted into the leather.  It was the same as he remembered.   He wanted to speak, but the air in his lungs was too thick to press through this vocal chords. 

“This way I can never forget who I am to you.  Right?  You keep the leash.  Next time you want me to witness something; you can just tie me to a light pole or a telephone box.”

John looked at him, his lips in a sneer.  Sherlock blinked.  Words were streaming through his mind so fast he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.  It was impossible to find a place to start. 

“Well, thanks for the tea, Sherlock. If you need me, just whistle.”  John laughed and walked out the door.


	2. Sniffer Dog and the Bad Cabbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John's dramatic Redbeard scene, Sherlock tries to piece together the strange bits and pieces of his memory from before the Fall. He is beginning to wonder about missing information and conflicting details. Maybe more is going on than meets the eye.  
> And is Moriarty ever going to contact him?
> 
> this is chapter two of the Redbeard series. Please read "Redbeard chapter 1 if you have not yet.

 

               John felt both victorious and wrecked as he marched off down the street, putting 221-fucking-b behind him for good. His stomach had a hard cramping sensation, as if he had done too many sit-ups. 

               "Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!" he swore aloud. His traitorous feet actually stopped, and half turned back before he wrestled control of them and pointed them back toward the cross street.  It wasn't until he turned the corner and put actual brick and mortar buildings between himself and Sherlock, that he was able focus on the day ahead.

               Mary was waiting for him at the clinic.  The day planner was filled with patients who were probably staking out chairs in his waiting room already.  A woman in a red business suit sneezed as they passed each other.  A vicious flu was going around, he would be double booked.  Yes. John had plenty to occupy his day- his night- his next week- month- year. 

               "You lived without the bastard for two years." John reminded himself, ignoring the strange looks from the people he passed.  "It's the lies! The god damned lies. Will he ever stop lying to me?" 

               Mary lied too, but even Sherlock admitted she had done it out of some kind of twisted love.  What ever Mary had been before, she was _his_ now. And they had a baby coming.  His life was taking shape.  He still had bad dreams, but not of Sherlock flying off the roof. Thank god!  That vision had been replace by one of Sherlock smirking at him with a painted on moustache and a French accent. 

               The memory of that night made John clench his jaws, which caused Redbeard's collar to tighten under his Adams apple. He coughed and it tightened more.  Okay. Obviously this was not going to work.  John ducked into a doorway and unbuckled the collar.  If he wrapped it twice, it fit around his wrist and looked kind of macho.  Like something a biker would wear.  He would just have to remember to take it off at the surgery, and _never_ let Mary see the name tag.  

               His mobile chirped and by habit he snaked it out of his pocket.  Sherlock's name was red starred on his text app.   John stubbornly shoved it back into his pocket.

               "Unbelievable." he muttered.  Before John walked another twenty feet, his phone chirped again.  John shook his head and muttered.  The third message came at the end of the next block when John was waiting for a light.  Flustered, John pulled the phone back out and looked at the messages. 

                _Sorry._

Then...

                _Honestly. So very sorry._

And finally...

              _You said to whistle. I am whistling._

               John balled his hand into a fist, and felt the tug of the dog collar on his wrist.  He _had_ said "whistle".  He rolled his eyes and sighed.

               "Oh for Pete's sake." John punched in a single character and hit send. 

              _K_

               Then he shoved his phone back in his pocket as the light changed and surged forward with the rest of the stream of people making their way to work.  As one, they poured down the steps into the tube station. John heard his phone chirp again, but he ignored it until he was wedged into a standing-room-only  carriage.  Hooking his elbow around a rail, he pulled his phone back out and checked it.  It was Sherlock.

                _Please don't 'K' me_

               The train pulled up to the siding and John focused on getting through the throng and back above ground before answering.

                _Working._

               His phone stayed quiet in his pocket for the rest of the morning.

*********

  

               Sherlock listened to John's stomping footsteps down the stairs. The front door slammed hard enough to vibrate the windows followed by the scrape of John’s shoe on the concrete as he twisted off on his left foot to march away.  As Sherlock listened to the physical sound of his best friend storming off for what might be the last time, Sherlock also listened to three distinct conversations in his head, switching from one to another like a kid playing with the pre-set buttons on a car radio.

               First conversation was John’s speech- on a loop.  It had been a great fiery speech with much to thrill at in the deadly focus of John’s voice.  Yet much of it was confusing. Not because John was unclear, but because what John said was raising a hundred unanswered questions of Sherlock's own.  

               When did he know about Mycroft and the snipers?  He knew now, and he knew when he told Anderson, but did he know it back then; two years ago, when he was standing on the roof?  There was a fog between now and then and he couldn't be sure. He tried to project himself back there, but lately his Mind Palace refused to cooperate. He couldn't force the memories to replay.  

               Sherlock sent a desperate apology to John. 

              _Sorry_

              The second conversation was his own voice, deep, protesting, supplicating as he responded to the loop of John's speech.  “Please forgive me.”  “If you will only give me a chance to explain.”  “ I don’t think of you as a pet.  You are so much more than that.”  

              Sherlock sent a second message to John.

              _Honestly. So very sorry._  

              A third conversation was building itself, line by line from Sherlock's past with John. It was less a conversation of voice, and more one of tiny flashes of memories, each triggered by the one before.

              "Pet." Moriarty.  At the pool, after John threw himself on Moriarty's back.

              "Redbeard." Mycroft before the wedding.

              "Hound."  Henry Knight, sitting here in John’s chair.

              "Sniffer dog"  Anderson tearing up his flat.

              "I'm not your 'sniffer dog'."  Sherlock shouting at Lestrade.

              The earliest memory was the clearest. He could recall vividly the sensation of riding an emotional speedball.  He was flying high; his brain incandescent.  Thoughts chasing thoughts chasing clues and he was the star in John's spotlight.  John was not a conductor of light, he _was_   _light_.   He lit up the dark corners of Sherlock’s mind with his adoration.  His faith gave Sherlock confidence. For a hedonistic moment Sherlock basked in the warmth of that memory.

                _You said to whistle. I am whistling._ Sherlock sent off another message.  He was getting a bit desperate so he hid it in bravado.

                "Sniffer dog."  

                "I let you in on these investigations, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean you get to conceal evidence.” Lestrade was chiding him; fatherly as always. Cross but never losing his temper.  Lestrade was unique in this respect. No other DI let him in on cases.  The only crime they had investigated without Lestrade was...what did John call it... _The Blind Banker_.  Dimmock, that idiot child, had caused the death of the museum curator with his interference.  John nearly died at the hand of Chinese smugglers.  Yes Lestrade made a difference.

                His phone pinged and he smiled to see John's number on the alert.  A single letter.  

            _K_

                What did that mean?  Oh yes. Short for “Okay”. Which was short for “I hear you.” “I understand.”  Sherlock texted quickly back, pressing the fact that John was still responding to him.

                _Please don't K me._ Sherlock smirked, imagining John's face when he read that.

 

               "I'm not your sniffer dog."

               Funny that a brilliant serial killer had not bothered to shut off his phone.  John never would have tracked him if he had.  Careless?  Not likely.  The Cabbie had walked up to the flat, had seen the police and watched them tracing the phone on John's laptop. He knew they were tracking his phone,  but he kept it on.

               Sherlock had put it down to hubris at the time.  Then with the excitement of 1/8 of an ounce of lead whizzing right past him and hitting the cabbie in the shoulder he had forgotten about it.  Oh look! There. Little John Watson, standing at parade rest. Cool, alert, waiting for Sherlock to 'get' who the shooter had been.  Sherlock's lip twitched remembering the scene.

               His phone pinged.

                _Working_

*********

 

               Mary brought sandwiches in for lunch and they had a picnic out in the meditation garden, among the ailing in wheelchairs who came out for weak sunlight and still air.

               Redbeard's dog collar lay resting in John's trouser pocket.  He didn't want Mary to see it.  She was nice to Sherlock, but protective of their time, hers and John's, and a reminder of Sherlock’s draw on John would put her off.

               They discussed patients, her latest cravings for Mexican food-which was damned hard to find in London- and baby names.  She scooted to the end of the bench to raise her legs and rest them in his lap.  Her ankles were puffy from baby weight. She wasn't a complainer, but he saw the way she winced when she had to walk far.  Soon enough it would be gone.  The baby was due in the last week of January.

               "What does Sherlock say about Moriarty?" Mary brought it up.

               "If he knows anything he's keeping it close to his chest."

               "You would think they could trace the source.  I thought his brother worked with the 007 bunch."

               "Mmm ". John shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth and then, holding Mary's leg up with his left hand, rolled her foot around with his right. Mary groaned.  Her ankle snapped and popped and soon with a smile she pulled that foot out of his hand and extended the other foot for the same treatment.

               Some of the convalescing patients grumbled at such goings on and rolled back inside. John didn't give a damn. The smile on Mary's face was priceless to him.  It had pulled him back from his darkest depression. No matter how down he had been after the war, nothing compared to the despair he felt at Sherlock's suicide.

               His phone alarm buzzed. Lunch over.

               "You go on and check in the 1 o'clock s  and I'll clean up." he patted her thigh in a way that expressed casual ownership, and a promise of more.

               "Right." she struggled to stand and he gave her a hand up. She kissed his cheek and left.

               His phone chirped.  He checked his messages.

              _I may not be remembering things chronologically._

               John’s eyes narrowed.  His hand wrapped around the collar in his pocket. 'Remember' it said. 'You can't get hurt if you know where you stand.'

            _You don't have to explain yourself to your dog_

            _I spent some time as a guest of a Serbian interrogation specialist. My memories are not as accurate as they once were_

               John shot to his feet. He felt a familiar 'call to action'.  Some Serbian prison guard was going to be sooo  very sorry he ever laid a hand on his Sherlock.  Another text came in.

 _It may be I did not know that Mycroft had taken out the snipers when I jumped. I hope I did not know.  The tea was good. Thanks_.  

 _Is there a chance I can get them, the Serbian prison guards_? _And you're welcome._ John typed quickly. 

 _Down boy_ Was Sherlock's reply.John snorted.

            _lol._ Sherlock added.

              _Lol? Who is this?_    John was grinning now.

              _YOUR sniffer dog.  S_

              John's brow wrinkled.  Sniffer dog.  Where had he heard that.  The bell chimed for one 'o clock.  John texted fast-

              _Work_                

             -then shoved his phone in his pocket.  If Sherlock was emoting in text, those Serbian prison guards must have brain washed him completely.

              "Sniffer dog?" John spoke aloud

*********

 

              Sherlock had waited out enough of John's wrath in the past, to know that as long as they were communicating, things would work out.   This time had been a near thing.  For a dreadful ten minutes, as long as it took John to stomp to the Tube, Sherlock had wondered if he would ever talk to John again.  What made it worse was not even being able to defend himself.  What had happened on the roof of Barts seemed like a bad dream and, like a dream, the harder he tried to remember what transpired the quicker the memories blew away. 

               He wanted to talk to Molly, but he was dead on his feet, and settled for a kip on the sofa.

***********

 

               After the patients were cleared out, while John was filling in some charts on his desktop the sentence ran through his head as a full statement.

               “I’m not your sniffer dog!”

               Along with the memory...Sherlock, hyper, possibly high, excited about his case. The serial suicides. Their first case.  Sherlock was arguing with Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

               Sherlock said something funny to Anderson. About turning around.  The phone was missing, Rachel's… not Rachel's... Jennifer's phone was missing. They were trying to follow the phone’s GPS.  And then the cabbie showed up.

               The one John killed.

               'Don't murder four people and maybe I won’t shoot you,' John muttered to himself.  'And absolutely don't try and kill my friend.'

               Sherlock was Lestrade's sniffer dog, only he liked to bring the prey down by himself. A deerhound, not a bloodhound. 

               John smiled at the thought. He punched in a quick text message to Sherlock:

              _I'm not the only dog then, you were Lestrade's sniffer dog._

               "Ready?" Mary hung on the door jamb.

               "Yes." He shut off his computer and took her arm.

**********

 

               Sherlock sat astride his motorbike, waiting.  His phone pinged. He read John's text.

               _I'm not the only dog then, you were Lestrade's sniffer dog._ "

               _Perish the thought!_    He typed back quickly. 

The ‘employee's only’ door swung open and Molly came out. Sherlock smiled at her funny swaying walk. It made her pony tail swing side to side.  He could pick her out of a crowd at 200 meters.

               "Molly!"

               He fired up his bike as she stopped and turned. Popping up on the curb, Sherlock drove the motorcycle right up to her.

               "Fancy a pint? My treat."

               "Well," she bit her lip.

               "Just one pint. A bit of chat. I will drive you home after." he handed his helmet to her and patted the seat behind him.

               "Okay, but someplace that serves wine."

               "I know the perfect place"

               She swung a leg over the seat behind him.

               "Hold tight!" he shouted and they roared of the sidewalk and into evening traffic.

*********

 

               In the cab, John checked his phone for emails. Saw the text and smiled.

               "What is it?" Mary asked.

               "tch, just Sherlock."

               He texted quickly

               _Thanks for not turning me in_.

               Then shoved his phone in his pocket and smiled at his wife.

***********

 

               Sherlock chose a bistro near Molly's neighborhood so the ride home in the cold of evening wouldn't be as long.  They ordered drinks, and Sherlock asked for appetizers so Molly wouldn't beg off for home to eat dinner.  She smiled radiantly.

               "This is nice, Sherlock."

               "Mmmm" he studied the wine list rather than meet her expectant gaze.  "It is. Two colleagues, sharing food, talking shop. Its what people do, isn't it?"

               She sipped her wine and nodded.  Not a date then.

               "Are you working on a case? Do you need my help?"

               "Wellll," he looked at her now, lips drawn in a flat line, then he inhaled and started.

"My mind, as you know, is exceptional."

               She grinned. "A national treasure."

               "Well." he nodded, "something like that.  And it still is, I can deduce anyone in here, you pick, or you, I can tell ..."

               Molly held her hand up,  "Not necessary."

               "Right. The thing is, since I returned, I am having trouble recalling things from before I left.  It’s only been two years, but it might as well have been ten."

               Molly swallowed her bite of bruschetta and spoke straight to the point.

               "Do you want me to give you some tests?"

               "Not necessary.  I already tested myself.  It’s nothing organic, and I remember childhood and my parents.  I think I just need to clear up some things."

               "What things?"

               "Do you remember the day I jumped from..."

               "Yes."

               "Good. Tell me, how much was my brother involved? Did he coordinate with you?"

               "Honestly, I didn't know he was anywhere around.  I just called friends of mine from the paramedics. I told them you were high and wanted to jump into a pillow."

               "They believed that?"

               "Why wouldn't they?"

               "Why didn't they tell the press?"

               "Well after… That's when Mycroft suddenly showed up.  Then there were "state secrets" papers to sign.  All national security and threats of jail time.  ‘You can't tell anyone. Especially not John.’ That’s what Mycroft told me.

               Sherlock shivered. Then tried to hide it with a gulp of beer.

               "I need something stronger, care for a scotch?"

               "No thanks." She waited until he waived over the waitress. "You don't remember this?"

               "Molly. Did I say anything about snipers?"

               "Oh, yes. You said to stay away from the windows because Moriarty had snipers who shot anyone you touched."

               Sherlock exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding.

               "That was before Mycroft showed up?"

               "Yes. That was when it was just you and me in the lab."

               "Good!" his drink arrived and he tossed it back and handed the empty shot glass back to the waiter.

               "One more of those, and we'll be ordering dinner I think? Molly?"

               She smiled. "Yes."

*********

               It was after dinner, when John was leaning against Mary on the couch watching ‘East Enders’ that his phone chirped.  He didn't reach for it right away. It was on the coffee table and if he moved, the delicate balance of he and Mary's mutual lean in would be disturbed.  But at the next commercial she had to pee and struggled off to the bathroom.

               Yawning John reached for his phone and checked his messages.

                _Turn you in for what?_

               John frowned, and scrolled back up to see what Sherlock was responding too. Oh.

                _Killing the Bad Cabbie_

               John wondered how smart it was to text this, but it was ages ago, people probably forgot all about it.

                _The Bad Cabbie? You didn't kill him._ S.”

               John frowned.  Maybe Sherlock was having trouble remembering.

                _I did. I shot him. He died._

                _I'm sure Mycroft told me he took one of his own pills._  

              _Well, there's your first mistake, listening to Mycroft._

            _I have to go. S_.

 ***********

               Sherlock hit send and smiled at Molly as she returned from the ladies room.  Faint traces of rubbed off lipstick gave way the fact that she had applied and then removed fresh makeup.  Hope springs eternal, isn't that something people say.

               "I should go, Sherlock. It's later than I thought."

               "Yes. Fine. Alright then." Sherlock left 75 £ for a 50 £ bill and helped Molly on with her coat.

               "Should I get you a cab instead?"

               "No! The bike is fine. I like it."

               Ten minutes later, a chilled but exhilarated Molly climbed off the back of Sherlock’s bike. She handed his helmet back to him which he took with a smile.

               "Molly?"

               "Yes? Did you want to come in?" She volunteered hopefully.

               "Another time, perhaps. Listen. Do you recall the serial suicides?"

               "Oh, yes. That was your first big case."

               "Did the body of the Cab driver, murderer, end up at Bart’s by chance."

               Molly looked to the right and left, suddenly not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

               "He did, I can tell, but what are you keeping from me, Molly?"

               "I had to sign more papers. I really am forbidden to talk about it."

               "You forget, Molly, I was the one who tracked him down.  I just...I'm foggy on the details now. Was he shot or poisoned.  Please, Molly, I feel I'm losing my mind."

               "Neither. Well, Shot. But he survived."

               Sherlock's neck stiffened and his chin lifted.

               "I see.  Thank you Molly."

               "Does that help? I want to help you recover, you know, if I can."

               "Yes." He took her hand as if to shake it, and kissed the back of it instead. "You are my guardian angel, Molly. Thanks for having dinner with me." Then he dropped her hand and pulled the helmet on.  Molly took a step back as he circled the motorcycle off the sidewalk and sped away.

*************** 

               John's phone chirped in the dark. He ignored it, Snuggling in under the cover, one arm under Mary's neck, a middle of the night text from Sherlock felt bizarrely like getting a call from your mistress.  Mary grumbled in her sleep.  He shut his eyes against the tiny flashing message light. But it teased him, with its relentless beckoning, so finally he scooped it up and read the text.

_You were right. You shot him. You were wrong.  He didn't die.  S_

               John put the phone back on the side table and felt better and worse at the same time.


	3. The Missing D.I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's search for his missing memories are leading him further and further away from John. In fact, Sherlock suspects that the reason John keeps asking the wrong question is because he is part of the conspiracy against him.

The Missing DI

Late that night Sherlock texted John:

"You were right. You shot him. You were wrong.  He didn't die.  S"

He then drove home through the cold London night; dancing with traffic on his BMW R100RS, and taking the long way round to Baker Street just to clear his head.  But nothing seemed to work.  His memory was not to be relied on.  He remembered standing on the cabbie’s shoulder demanding a name.  Then he was in the back of an ambulance with a blanket around him and John was twenty feet away, looking rabbit sharp, hiding his powder burn covered hands behind his back. 

Lestrade spoke like the serial killing cabbie was dead.  Sherlock thought he meant that the gunshot had killed him.  But later Mycroft had told him the cabbie took his own pill, and died in frothing agony.  Now Molly, the only person he really trusted to know the truth, tells him neither is true.

Someone is lying to him.

He trudged up to his flat and set his helmet on the table.  He shrugged out of the short leather coat he had taken to wearing.  The long coat didn’t work so well on the motorcycle, and frankly he was tired of the "Sherlock Costume'. The belstaff hung on the coat rack, the deerstalker stayed on top of the skull on the mantle, which, to Sherlock’s eye, improved both the appearance of the skull and the hat.

The quiet of the apartment was a source of aggravation to Sherlock.  The silence lead to hearing whispered voices that he prayed were coming from auditory memories. He sometimes put on the telly or radio for back ground noise, but he knew from experience that the soft quiet he dealt with now was nothing compared to the ringing quiet of the flat once the tv had been shut off and the walls waited for John’s voice to say "time for bed." He was better off wrestling with his thoughts and listening to the fragments of conversation that ran through his brain.   These scraps of left over life kept him from feeling completely isolated.

Before John moved in. Sherlock had not known how alone felt.  He had his music, his experiments, his landlady and Lestrade stopping by with a case every few days.  Once John moved in Lestrade didn't come by as often.  Sherlock wondered if Lestrade was sitting alone in his flat right now. Maybe he should give him a text. Wait. Was he married?  Sherlock heard a shard of conversation he had with Lestrade saying:

“I’m going to see my wife for Christmas, we’re reconciling.”

And Sherlock responding reflexively,   “No.  She’s still sleeping with the P.E. teacher.”

Single then.  Unless in the two years when Sherlock had been dead, Lestrade had found another woman. Like John.  This thought sent him lunging for the remote and he put the tv on after all.  Some talking heads in suits prattled on while the loop of Moriarty saying "Did you miss me?" played on a big screen behind them.   He turned the sound down to a mutter and flung himself on the couch.  Moriarty could wait. Until he could repair the gaps in his memory, he couldn't trust his deductions.

He ticked through the events he could remember about the serial suicides. There were three before Lestrade contacted him.  Of course the Detective had only come calling _after_ Sherlock had hacked the press conference.   Pity he hadn't called Sherlock in sooner.  He could have saved the last two victims.  

Idiot!

How had he ever been promoted to Detective Inspector?

Of course Lestrade was the best of a bad lot. He knew when he was beaten, and cared enough about justice to swallow his pride and call on Sherlock.

Not like Dimmock.

Master idiot! The poor girl at the museum would still be alive if he and John had been given access sooner.  Not to mention the near miss with John and Sarah at the hands of the smugglers. If Dimmock had been responsible for John's death, Sherlock would have seen to it that Dimmock paid the same price as Magnusson... "Merry Christmas!" A bang reverberated through the flat. Sherlock shut his eyes. Well, it didn't do to get locked into such trains of thought. 

He would have to insure that Lestrade was available for all future cases. That would keep John safe. 

Sebastian Wilkes had skipped the police.

That's how Sherlock got the case before Scotland Yard. It wasn't often that happened.  _The Blind Banker_.  John had called the case.  Wonder what John would have called The Boomerang killing?  _The Unhappy_ Return?  That's what he would have called it.  Sherlock smiled.  That was a private client too; the walking heart attack man had just shown up in the flat.  Sherlock secretly loved the unpredictability of the nutty walk-ins.  Of course, he'd been abducted by Mycroft before he could state the obvious and impress John.

And then _Baskerville_. That was the best nutty walk-in if ever there was one. And fun. Just he and John taking on the Military Industrial Complex without any "keepers".  Of course that hadn't lasted long. Lestrade showed up out of the blue.  But Not until Mycroft found out Sherlock was using his I.D. Or had John called him? No, John was with him the whole time, wasn't he? There was that awful night, when he saw Moriarty's face in the Hollow. He drank too much, yelled at John. John had wondered if he was sick. Did John call Lestrade then? Sherlock turned his back to the tv set. He couldn't bare Moriarty's face at the moment. 

Was Lestrade watching him for Mycroft?

Revolting thought.  Big Brother's constant prying eyes.

Maybe Sherlock should lay off the Scotland Yard cases.  Then he could work with autonomy.

 

But Charles Augustus Magnussen

No Lestrade within 100 miles of that.  Sherlock had surprised everyone with his Christmas gift to John. Mycroft must have awakened in a real fury.  Mary was right about one thing, a man like that needed killing.  A man who preyed on those who were different. 

The missing basement had been a twist he didn't see.  But in the end it just made things cleaner.  Finding out that no hard evidence existed outside of the blackmailer’s mind insured that Sherlock could shut that threat down with a bullet to the head.  It had been exhilarating.  No second guesses.  No intellect. Just pure emotion. No wonder John missed the war. 

Then, just like fairy lights, the funny red dots appeared, dancing over his chest exactly like the red dots at the swimming pool.

Sherlock's stomach leapt and he sat up quickly and spit into a dirty tea cup that sat on the desk next to him.

Better.

He rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

Airfield. The Gulf Stream. Shaking hands with a cold withdrawn John.  It would have been so much more elegant if Mycroft had let the MI6 crew take the kill shot after he shot Magnusson. Frankly coming back after had been a real let down.

"Men like us Sherlock, we embrace the moment of our death."  Major Sholto had confessed to him.

He had embraced it, as Sholto said; embraced his moment of death.  John was safe.  A great evil was erased. John would have admired him as a fallen hero. 

But instead he was back here at Baker Street with too much time on his hands, waiting for Moriarty to strike again.  John considered him a pain in the arse, and the subjects of England considered him a failure for allowing Moriarty to somehow survive.

Sherlock sighed and tried to sleep.

Moriarty's face swam up to him, like it had in Dewar’s Hollow.  Sherlock shuddered in reflexive response to...

To what?

He opened his eyes. To Moriarty's face?  No.  He knew it wasn't real, but to the sensation of being out of control. No. Not out of control but in someone else's control.

 

Sherlock sat up.  The room was dark, but his mind was full of the bright lights of Baskerville. The cages, the smell, the screams of the animals subjected to unending experimentation. John shrieking from a cage. A man in a cage. Tortured. Losing control of his bowels.

Sweat sprung from Sherlock's pores.

His mouth filled with saliva.  He lept up and grabbed his coat. Time for a walk. On the streets, across the park, unrestrained.

 

 

John woke that morning with foggy thoughts.  He rolled out of bed and performed his new routine of letting Mary sleep in while he made tea and toast and fetched the paper. He was standing in the shower under a stream of hot water when he remembered Sherlock's odd text.  "You shot him, but he's not dead."

Well how could that be?  It was in the morning papers the day after. Serial Killer Dead.

Something didn't add up.  On the tube, standing room only, John texted Sherlock.

"How did you find this out?"

He waited.

And waited.

He was half way through his shift when Sherlock texted back.

"Did you call Lestrade?" 

"No. Did you ask me to?" 

"Never mind. Meet me for lunch? You pick the spot, I'll buy."

John's stomach growled.

"Deli on the corner. In an hour."  As he hit send John wondered what madness awaited him.

 

John arrived at the deli first.  He passed up the waiter's suggestion of a window seat for a booth in the back.  He felt certain Sherlock would prefer it.  He didn't have time to sit before Sherlock materialized. John blinked and tried not to show his surprise.  As he sat, however, a marble mask descended over Sherlock's face and John frowned, wondering what his friend had to say.

"Two teas and two cheese sandwiches." John spoke to the waiter, "One of those is for you." John informed Sherlock, hoping to maintain an upper hand. Something was off.  He felt they were at the entrance to one of Sherlock's rabbit holes and he had no time for a trip into Wonderland.  Another half shift waited for him at Barts.

"Interesting that you took a job at Bart's."

Sherlock as always seemed able to tease out John's thoughts.  John steadied himself by twisting the dog collar wrapped around his wrist.  Looking up into Sherlock's studied stare, John lifted his left arm and rested it on the table, the leather strap of collar peaked out from under his sleeve with the brass tag  facing toward Sherlock.

Sherlock winced and looked away.

"Well, it just happened that way, Molly heard of an opening. It's not really connected to the hospital, the clinic. Anyway, this is a nice surprise, Sherlock, but what is going on? Is this about ..." John looked once around quickly for listening ears, "the bad cabbie?"

"You tell me, John. Or maybe ask your colleague Lestrade." 

"What? Look, you texted me last night that the cabbie didn't die." John leaned in close. "What am I supposed to make of that?  You told me that night that he was dead. You said he was dead by the time Lestrade showed up.  I was nowhere near the body, or _not body_ as it seems now.   _Who_ told _you_ the cabbie wasn't dead?"

Sherlock frowned. The waiter came with the tea and saandwiches. Both men sat quietly until he left. 

John growled, "Where are you getting this?”

"Wrong question John. Will you never learn my techniques?"

"Then what is the bloody question, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock studied him, searching his face for signs of something- god only knows what, John thought, trying to look unflinchingly into Sherlock's eyes- before answering.

"Who?. Who is the question." 

John could feel the rigor of confusion freezing his face as he tried to follow Sherlock's meaning. 

"Sherlock.  The next morning, the newspaper said he was shot by an unknown assailant and died at the scene.  Who is telling you otherwise?"

Sherlock tipped his head back and looked down his nose at John's apparently guileless face. "Did you call Lestrade, when we were in Baskerville? Is that why he appeared 'on vacation'? Or did you call Mycroft?"

John's mouth gaped. A klaxon sounded in his ears. A memory flashed of Sherlock's snarling face: 'I don't have friends!'. His heart sank into his stomach. At Baskerville he had assumed Sherlock's emotional outburst was the effect of the poison? What was the trigger now? Had he ingested an hallucinogenic? 

"Why are you asking me...Sherlock?" John leaned forward. "Have you been using?"

Sherlock's head did the slow tilt he used when he was looking at someone as if he had never seen them before. John wanted to take back his words. The last time he had seen that expression on Sherlock's face was when Magnusson told him there was no vault full of secrets. Before that it had been two years before, at Kitty's apartment when Moriarty was pretending to be Richard Brook and for a flashing second John had wavered. That fit. Didn't it. An actor hired by an egomaniac sociopath. But John remained loyal to his friend. 'No!' John had shouted; he would stand fast. Loyal to the end. Loyal to a fault? 'No! You're Moriarty'. 

John held up his hand in supplication. "Forget I asked that. Please." 

"You shot a man you did not know through two windows. I heard the glass explode and felt the wind from the bullet. The wound was in the shoulder. Hardly a kill shot. Surgery? He is declared dead. You knew me less than 48 hours." 

John sat back, feeling stunned and wounded. "He had a gun, Sherlock. Ok. A lighter, but I couldn't tell, and he was forcing you to ingest a poisoned pill. Of course I shot. Where is this coming from?" 

"I describe you perfectly as the shooter, but Lestrade doesn't make the connection? He is dim, but not stupid. You know me less than 48 hours and you shoot a man for me. Lestrade let's us walk away. Why is that, John? Who hired You?" 

"What? Suddenly you don't trust me?" 

"I've already said too much." Sherlock shoved his chair back.

"Wait! You're leaving?" John grabbed Sherlock's wrist. 

Sherlock broke Johns hold and stood up, knocking his chair over.

"It’s not important forget I said anything." Sherlock mumbled as he turned and fled the shop.

John was too stunned to get up and follow.

 

 

Sherlock dashed across the street, dodging cars, and ducked into book store. He didn't bother to wait for the tail he was now sure was on him. He had to warn Molly. Obviously phones were out. It would have to be face to face. No time to wait for her to get off work, he had to get there at once. It might already be too late. 

Sherlock retreated out the back door of the book store.  Leaving his motorcycle parked in the alley, he climbed the fire escape.  Mycroft had the streets covered at every angle with cctv cameras.  Rooftops were the only way to avoid a pursuit.  He ran hard and cleared the 6 foot gap between the bookstore building and the accountants shop next door.  Climbing, jumping, passing through open windows and doors he made his way to the end of the block.

Out of rooftops, Sherlock scrambled down a rain pipe and bounced off a skip. He took a moment to shrug out of his jacket and tied it around his waist with the arms. He untucked his shirt tail, and wrapped his scarf around his wrist and then around his neck, forming a makeshift sling. He looked around and then found a standing puddle of rain water. With his free hand he scooped water and plastered it on his hair, then combed his hair back. Hoping that his scruffy appearance would fool Mycroft long enough to reach the emergency room, he hurried in a half jog the one block over to Bart's. 

 

John went back to work, but on his way he left a message with Lestrade to meet him after his shift.

John grew angrier with himself with each passing minute.  Sherlock was battling with something and John had been oblivious to his friend's struggle. He had a good idea what was at the bottom of it. Sherlock had killed someone. He never did that before, not with all his run-ins with dangerous arch rivals and undercover work in the seediest parts of London.  He never even owned a gun.  He needed to use John’s.

Now he had crossed a line and could never undo it. And John had been the most self-centered clod ever.  When Sherlock needed him to keep him from spinning out of control, John had abandoned him, leaving him to stew in the memories of his bloody actions.

He hadn't even said ‘Thank you for saving my wife.  Thank you for doing what I should have done.’

John had thought Sherlock a machine. He couldn’t have been more wrong.  John was the machine.  He'd wanted action, had been happy to follow Sherlock around, drinking it in, but when he’d had enough, he retreated into the seeming sanctity of marriage and left Sherlock spinning like a top.

"What an ass!" He swore at himself as he picked up the charts for his 4:15 appointment.

Mary looked at him curiously.  John reddened and cleared his throat.

"I'm meeting Greg after work. Gonna watch some sport thing."

"Sport thing?" She smiled at him. "Okay. I'll see you at home then. Try not to be out too late, Work tomorrow."

"Yes." he smiled tightly. "I'll be home early."

He rolled his shoulders and went in to his last patient.

.

 

"Sherlock?" Molly looked up at him from her knees where she had been counting boxes of disposable drapes on the bottom shelf of a cabinet in the supply room.

He shut the door behind him, and joined Molly on the floor, kneeling beside her.

"Molly. I've only a second. Your life depends on your discretion. If Anyone, and that includes John or Mary or my brother, ask if we have been discussing the old cases, you must deny it. In fact, everything we've discussed for the last week, just forget it ever happened."

"What’s going on, Sherlock? Are you in danger?"

"Always." he smiled. "But it's you I'm worried about. The reason you haven't been targeted thus far is that you remain uninvolved. You have to stay that way.  In fact, it wouldn't hurt if you went on vacation for a week, two would be better."

"I'm too busy for that. What is this...is this the serial suici..."

Sherlock gave Molly a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I have to go. I wasn't here."

He stood up in one movement and slipped out the door.

 

 

 

Greg Lestrade was checking his watch and swallowing the last of his second pint when John finally arrived.

"Cor! Sorry I'm late; I actually got lost finding this place. Who puts a front door in the alley?" John shrugged out of his jacket and ordered a round for them both.

"It’s an old pub. They didn't move the front door, the streets changed around them." Lestrade pulled open a bag of crisps and offered first grab to John.

John took a crisp and a long pull of his draft.

"So why have we never met here before then?"

"It’s my ‘bolt hole’ as Sherlock would say, and they turn a blind eye to the occasional smoke."

John noticed the haze in the air and his eyes stung. Looking around he was sure this crowd had been coming here since the 60's. "Nostalgic."

"So what's up then?"

"Well" John took a deep breath and regretted it immediately as he was over come with a cough. "Something's off with Sherlock. And I wondered if you knew anything about it."

Greg chuckled. He took a swig of his beer and turned to John. Then he laughed, shook his head and laughed some more.

"Well?" John was growing impatient.

" 

"C'mon, John." Greg frowned at him as he lit up a cigarette of his own.  He offered one to John who waved it away.

"C'mon What?"

"It's Sherlock. You know how he is." 

"I thought I did. But this is new behavior."

"Mmmmm?" Lestrade waited.

"Sherlock and I have been 're-connecting'. I've been trying to establish a 'healthier' dynamic."

"Dynamic?" Lestrade's eyebrows rose comically. 

"Making him take responsibility for things he's put me through. Anyway. We've been chatting regularly the last few days, texting, joking. Then today I got radio silence, first, then we met for lunch, and he accused me of plotting against him. and now he's fallen off the face of the Earth."

Greg grimaced.

"Welcome to my world."

"Youre world?"

"You know why Anderson and Donovan keep calling him a sociopath? Not just to tick him off or make themselves feel better when he shoves their noses in a clue they missed, but because he is." Greg sipped and continued:

"He does this John. He bolts. He begins to imagine there are dragons and he goes off his nut."

"Not like this, Greg. He's _never_ done this before."

"Not while you lived with him, no. Something about you calmed him down. You were like his..."

"Pet, yes I know."

"I was going to say security blanket, but have it your way."

"He was scared Greg, of _me_. There is something wrong."

"John, I've known him years longer than you. He just needs a case. We let him go too long, and now he’s making up his own.  Sometimes it happens.  Mycroft will find him. He never escapes Mycroft's all seeing eye."

“What do you mean?  What does that mean?  ‘We let him go too long?’”

“Come on John.  Think about it.  Scotland Yard doesn’t hire amateurs.  But Mycroft Holmes sort of is the British government, and we’ve worked out an arrangement.  He calls up when Sherlock needs a case, and I let him poke around on whatever I’m working on.  Provided there is something interesting enough for his Majesty to deign to help with.”

Greg ground out his smoke and looked at his empty glass.

"Another?"

"That's it then? Sherlock is running around out there being chased by monsters and we just get another pint."

"Actually I was thinking of a whiskey. Look. Don't worry John, he's _our_ problem now. You have a baby due, right, any day now?  You have a lot on your plate. Leave Sherlock to us, we know how he works. He'll be amazing us all with his brilliance in a day or two."

"I'm gonna skip that drink Greg. Mary's waiting. Please let me know when you find him."

"Okay, John. Will do." he patted John on the back. 

"By the way Greg, that Cabbie that poisoned everyone. He died, right? From a gunshot? 

"Heh, that's ancient history. I think he took one of his poisoned pills."

John stopped.

"Not shot?"

Greg thought hard.

"No. You're right, he got shot. That's right. Never found the shooter."

John chewed on his bottom lip. "Did you suspect Sherlock?"

Greg laughed. "Nah! Sherlock is gentle as a kitten, that's why he was allowed to run the streets; he was never a danger to anyone."

"Except Magnusson." John pointed out.

Greg scowled. 

"That wasn't on my watch. Mycroft dropped the ball that time." He lifted one finger to the bartender who obligingly drifted over to the Detective Inspector.

"Well, goodnight then. Thanks for the chat." John collected his jacket. 

"Of course. Let's catch a match sometime." 

"Will do, call me when Sherlock turns up."

 

From the rooftop across the alley Sherlock watched John leave the pub, barely fifteen minutes after he went in. 

A meeting then.  With who?  Sherlock moved like a ghost across the roofs, tracking John as he walked back to the main road.


	4. The Rubbish Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is stunned to learn of the depth of involvement Mycroft has had in he and Sherlock's life. Sherlock is convinced that John is in league with Mycroft against him. As both men search for answers, Sherlock is spinning further and further out of himself while John is being pulled tighter and tighter into a constricting relationship he is beginning to resent.

               As John walked away from the pub, he had a lot to think about, so much so that he couldn't pick a starting point. There were multiple threads branching out of this new information and John didn't have the steel trap mind of Sherlock to help him map it out. 

 _Lestrade feeds Sherlock cases_.

               He kept stopping as he walked, caught in a line of thought that was so compelling that his feet forgot to move, and it would be the realization that he was shivering with cold or being stared at by patrons from a restaurant window that would shake him out of it and move him forward until the next link clicked into place.

 _Mycroft was controlling Sherlock through access to cases.  Mycroft tried to control John with his offer to spy for money.  John had refused_.

 _Greg was Mycroft's watch dog for Sherlock_. 

               The light changed and John didn’t notice; cars stopped, people stepped off the curb around him.

               John had to admit he sometimes wondered why Lestrade was the only D.I. to let Sherlock work his crime scenes.   He was angry that Lestrade hadn’t told him sooner.  Of course, he probably should have figured it out on his own.  Hell, Sherlock said as much frequently.  Why was he so naïve.

               A passing pedestrian bumped into him and looking up he saw the _walk_ sign switch to _don’t walk_.  He’d missed his light.

               As he waited for the next crossing light, John pulled out his phone and rang Sherlock.  He thought he heard a ring from nearby, but it stopped as he spun around.

               No answer.

He texted:

" **Where are you? Are you okay? We need to talk**."

               Like an idiot, he waited for a response. None came.  The light changed again.  John started to cross. He took two steps when a shiny black town car angled purposefully into the curb blocking his way. The back door swung open.

               "Of course."  John said out loud. Then leaned over and spoke into the car.  "Just the rubbish big brother I wanted to speak to." John slid in next to Mycroft.

********************************

               Sherlock, watching from a roof top overhead, reached for his phone in a panic as it rang in his pocket.  Luckily John didn’t seem to notice. Five seconds later Mycroft pulled up.  Sherlock's jaw set like concrete. 

               "Of course.”  They had been working together all along.

               John chatted pleasantly, even smiling, and climbed in.

               Sherlock began to wonder why he had even come back.  Mycroft may be a sadist but he knew the truth about things.  Caring was not an advantage.  Mycroft never lied, not like John Watson.  Obviously that first night, after John moved in, when he said that Mycroft had kidnapped him and offered him money to spy on Sherlock, John had said "Yes.”  No doubt his brother must have instructed John to return to Baker Street and tell Sherlock he had met his ‘Arch Enemy’. It served to convince Sherlock that John was an honorable man. It worked perfectly. John had been a blind spot from the start.  Something about the man shouted ‘loyal to a fault’.   Sherlock must guard against such a mistake in the future.

               Well, it hardly mattered now.  After two years away chasing down Europe’s most wanted, and returning to find John with wife _and_ child, there was nothing left of their relationship (whether real or manufactured) to mourn.

               Or rather everything to mourn, if it had never been real.

               Sherlock had to admit he was mad for the funny, angry little man.  John was the only person besides Molly and Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock felt at ease with.  He had even stood up to Mycroft in Sherlock’s behalf; no one else had the nerve to do that.  Of course now it was revealed to be nothing but theatrics.  Sherlock’s own affection for the man had blinded him to the truth.  John _had_ been a dog, but he wasn't Sherlock's pet, and if all John's tricks had been played for someone else's dog biscuit, then Sherlock had been like a little kid fooled by the dogs on the telly, who weren’t really saving their television masters but just barking for some off screen trainer.

               Revolting.

               Strangely for a high functioning sociopath he was suddenly awash in sadness.  The city spun below him.  He sat down on the gravel roof and fought to understand what was happening to him. 

His brother was his Keeper. 

His friends were turnkeys. 

London was a prison. 

Freedom for Sherlock Holmes was nothing but an elaborate illusion. 

               He felt wretchedly ill and curled up on himself, gasping for breath.  The very night was crowding around him.  The darkness was trying to force itself into his mouth and fill his lungs.  He wheezed through tight lips to keep it out.  The stars were staring at him.  He looked up in horror at the velvet black gaps in the London fog.  A new thing, this; something that had started while he was roaming Europe.  It was the satellites that were tracking him, of course, but since they could only see him with clear skies, the stars reminded him of their presence.  On the streets were the cameras, Mycroft’s eyes. On the roof top were the eyes of the watchers; who’s identity he had yet to discover.  Between the two, he felt he could out fox his brother easier.  Mycroft was busy debriefing John Watson.  His attention would be elsewhere.

               He climbed down the fire escape, and ran full tilt down the sidewalk, weaving through the few pedestrians around at the late hour.  Every face that turned to watch him pass seemed filled with diabolical intent.  The skin between his shoulder blades prickled with the certainty that a bullet would pierce it at any moment.  He moved erratically to throw off any tracking rifle scope.  From his pocket he pulled out a soft billed paperboy hat and ducked under an awning to put it on.  He took off his jacket, and carried it under his arm.  As he passed a crowd forming around the ticket kiosk of a movie house, he saw a cab dropping off a foursome of half-drunk laughing girls.  Sherlock ducked into the cab just as the last one stepped out.  From the relative safety of the back seat he planned his next move.

               While Mycroft was engaged with John, Sherlock could risk his motorcycle. He had left it parked behind a skiff a half mile from Baker Street under a painter’s canvas tarp.  In a garden shed in Marlborough he had stowed away 500£ and a false I.D.  Get the bike, pick up his new identity and some cash, and get far away from London.   Far from Mycroft and Lestrade. Farther still from John Watson. 

               “We’re here mate.”  The cabbie said.

**********************************

               Mycroft wasted no time on pleasantries. He bore in.

               "My mother phoned to say she had a strange visit from Dr. Watson, and that he had taken the leash and collar to Sherlock's dog.  Most peculiar.  I might have put it down to mother's slipping grasp on reality, but then I saw the video feed of your theatrical little scene with my brother."

               John was set back by this sudden assault and frank admission of spying.

               "You do spy on him?  ‘Constantly’  then.   So you know where he is now?"

               "You have no need to concern yourself with his whereabouts now John.  You are married.  You have a child arriving any moment.  By rights you should be home.  Yet here you are running the streets past your bed time.”

               "I'm sorry.  What?  Mycroft. You are not my Rubbish Older Brother.  You don’t get to tell me what to do."

               "No.  But I am Sherlock’s older brother and as such, I need to insist that you leave him alone.”

               “Insist all you like.  The only one who can tell me to leave Sherlock alone is Sherlock. Now, if you‘d give me the courtesy of listening for a moment, Sherlock has been acting strange the last two days, and now he has gone missing entirely.  I should think as his brother, you’d be interested in helping me find him.”

               “He has no doubt gone off to investigate a case by himself.  Obviously you cannot take a hint.  He doesn’t want your help.”

               “Oh, what case would that be Mycroft?”

               “I’m sure I don’t know.”

               “Liar.  You provide every case he’s on.  Lestrade told me.  You have been lying to me and Sherlock since the day I met you.”

               "Oh I don’t think that’s true.  No one has been lying to anyone.  Greg must have been mistaken.”

               John crossed his arms.  “He said you have him feed Sherlock cases.”

               “How is that a lie?  Simply because you were too dim to make the connection yourself?”

               John huffed.  “I may not be a genius, but Sherlock is and he didn’t know this.”

               “Sherlock lives in a world I have constructed for him.  He always has.  He probably is aware that I push Lestrade to share his case load, but I don’t think he cares.  He has an addictive personality.  It is either casework or cocaine, I prefer the former.  And as an addict, Sherlock doesn’t care who provides him with his fix just as long as it arrives.”

               “…A world you….” John cocked his head, “…constructed for him?”

               Mycroft exhaled harshly.

               “John.  You have a sister, who is an addict, do you not? An alcoholic? ”

               “What does that have to do with you controlling …”

               “You encourage her to seek treatment, go to A.A., do you not?  And when she doesn’t follow your advice; when she falls off the wagon, or gets arrested for driving drunk, what do you do?  Tell me.”

               “That is none of…”

               “I’ll tell you then, shall I?  You use your role as sibling to force her back in line, do you not?”

               John sputtered.  Mycroft held up his hand.

               “You withhold your company.  You refuse to visit her for holidays.  And yet the moment she sobers up, why, you are suddenly the loving brother again.  You call her. You take Sunday day trips to visit her.  You use what you have to shape her behavior.  And you’re sister is not a genius.  She is not a sociopath.  She is just a common drunk.”

               “I do not construct” John made quotation mark signs with his fingers at ‘construct’, “my sister’s life.  I stay away because I will not condone her drinking with my presence.  It’s hardly the same thing.  What you’re doing is monstrous.”

               “The monster here Dr. Watson is you.”

               “Me!  What have I done but been Sherlock’s best friend?”

               “You destroyed him.”

               “No.  Oh, no, no, no…” John waved his hand between him and Mycroft.  “If anything he destroyed me.”

               “You taught him to kill.  For that I can never forgive you.”

               John froze.

               “I didn’t.”

               “You did.  When you shot the cabbie.”  Mycroft slid his open hand across his forehead.

               “I…I…I didn’t shoot the cabbie.”

               “Now who’s lying?”

               “I…” John’s mouth opened and shut and finally he sat back.  “I was saving his life, not instructing him in the art of warfare.”

               “None the less, up until that point Sherlock had roamed at will with never a thought for violence.  Even if his own life was in danger.  It simply never occurred to him.  It was part of the reason Lestrade was meant to stick by his side, so he didn’t stand there and get shot by the person he was tracking down.  It was a good system, until you showed up, and then you took Greg’s place as bodyguard, unofficially, and we have been scrambling to regain control ever since.”

               “I…uh…well, look here, Mycroft, _if_ I just took the place of Lestrade, how could I have changed anything?”

               “Greg didn’t go racing off after every crazy whim of Sherlock’s.  If you will deign to recall, you were often encouraging Sherlock to take cases just to keep him from being bored, often cases he had no interest in.”

               “Well…”

               “Oh how many tapes have I watched where the conversation went: ‘You must take a case Sherlock, pick one, any one.’”

               John felt the heat rising up his neck.  The idea that all of the times he had thought himself alone in the flat, or that he and Sherlock were sharing a quiet evening of chat at home, were actually entertaining some minion of Mycroft’s made him snick his teeth together.   God, how many times had he just run into the sitting room naked and dripping from a shower to pick up his ringing phone when he knew that Sherlock was out.

               “I hope you enjoyed the show.” He said icily. “I don’t suppose I need to even be dressed around you anymore.”

               Mycroft smiled slickly.  “No, I suppose you don’t.  But, as this will be our last meeting, I don’t think you need to worry about your state of dress or undress.”

               “You fucking bastard…” John tried to rise from his seat. Not that there was room or any where to go. 

               “Oh please sit down, John Watson.  It is just this kind of behavior that makes you completely unsuitable to be Sherlock’s friend.  He does enough rash things on his own.  Like shooting Charles Magnussen to save his best friend’s wife.”

               John sat down heavily.

               “You see now, don’t you?  Murder.  Cold blooded.  No matter how much a man like that might deserve it, it still is illegal, and were it Not for Moriarty’s sudden reincarnation, my brother would be incarcerated in a maximum security prison, or dead, even as we sit here and have this pleasant exchange of ideas.”

               “I didn’t ask him too…”

               “You didn’t need to.  You continue to think of Sherlock as a sane and normal person, he is not, and you had already demonstrated to him that you loved him enough to kill for him.  Of course, when you removed your love and gave it to another, he would be compelled to kill for you, just as your sister is compelled to return to rehab, to prove he was worthy of your love.  It is plain to me.  I have known Sherlock since he was an infant and I understand how he thinks.”

               John gulped. “I’m not gay.”

               “Oh please Doctor Watson!”  Mycroft was working himself into rather a snit.  He stopped and took a breath.  He smiled with all but his eyes. “I don’t care _what_ you are.  Again, Sherlock Holmes is a unique individual.  You may play around with labels for the rest of your life, but Sherlock doesn’t understand anything but his own compulsions.  This….Doctor….is why I must insist that you stay away from my brother.”

               John opened his mouth to defend himself, but nothing came out.  He sat back.

               “Oh my god.” His hand rubbed across his lips. “Jesus…” he let his head fall back into the buttery softness of the leather seats.  “Oh, no…”

               "If Sherlock has gone on without you that is only for the best.”  Mycroft continued gently.  “ I couldn't get you to leave him, but now he has left you, so that will work just as well.  You John are as actively and fully engaged as any man can be with your new life. I need, strike that- I know you don't care what I need- but Sherlock needs, for you to go back to your wife and practice and live a long and happy life.   Never speak to Sherlock Holmes again.  Do you understand?  Because I love my brother, and I won't have you endanger him anymore. Are we clear, Dr. Watson?"

               The car slowed to a stop. John was livid, but couldn't find any argument to throw in Mycroft's face. Suddenly hot tears of frustration filled his eyes and he dared not blink for fear of dislodging them. Mycroft went blurry.  The door opened behind him and a delicate hand stroked his head.

               "John? Are you alright? Come inside dear."

               Mary.

               "Mary, how lovely to see you.”  Mycroft talked past John to his very heavy wife.  “John was looking for a cab, and I just happened to be passing by.  We’ve had a lovely chat.  I understand the blessed event is nigh?”

               "Wait. Wait. So you know where he is, right now? Cause he isn't answering his phone and no one's seen him."

               "He will be found. And all will be well. No need for your...”

               "You don't know where he is?  How is that?  You have every street lined with cameras."

               "Good night John.  I'm afraid he's had a few too many Mary.  Maybe a cuppa would put him right?"

               "Fuck you Mycroft! I'm sober as a judge."

               "Come on John, let's get you away from this insufferable prick!"  Mary tugged on John’s bicep with both hands.  He didn't want her to strain herself with the baby so close, so John climbed out of the car. He wanted to say something that would throw Mycroft into as much turmoil as he was suffering from but when you've just been shown to be the 'arsehole' in a situation, scathing repartes are hard to find. 

               "Go to Hell, Mycroft!" He said and slammed the car door.

               "My god. That man!”  Mary chattered and smoothed his arm as they walked up to the door of their townhouse.  John was helpless to do anything but follow along.  His world was spinning on a different axis and he felt at any second he would be sent careening off into space.  God, if only he could talk to Sherlock. 

*******************************

               Sherlock didn't remember when exactly he started showering in the dark. It was sometime in the last two years, because when John lived with him, he still kept the light on. He knew this was so because of the odd moments when John would have to come in and retrieve something or brush his teeth in a rush to get to work. John would have commented on Sherlock in the dark.

               He suspected it was from his time on the run, hunting and being hunted.  Bright lights made him uncomfortable now. He felt so exposed under fluorescent light that he trembled.  He told no one this.  He would shove his hands in his pockets and wear shades when working cases at night that involved flickering white light.

               Now, safe in a dark room with warm water streaming off him, his left hand circled his flaccid cock and gently woke it.

               Another unexplained new behavior.  Why he suddenly became a chronic masturbator after years of never touching himself was another memory lost in fog. He knew that there were drugs available, legal and otherwise, that could calm him down when his brain was cycling at high RPMs and in danger of seizing.  He had used them enough in his previous life.   For Sherlock to embrace this more organic form of self-relaxation, there must have been a spell in the last two years when drugs were not to be found, and he was forced to turn to his own hand. 

               Whatever the genesis of this new vice, it worked well enough and he needed it now.  He played John’s wedding party over in his mind's eye.  Everything was yellow and warm.  Buzzed on wine, John asked Sherlock to dance and they waltzed, gracefully among smiling faces.  The waltz he composed played on his violin and John pulled him closer.

               Sherlock's cock stirred with pleasure and his spine softened as he lengthened the strokes.

               "God Sherlock." John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock melted into John, his body filling John's gaps. He muttered into his silver gold hair:

               "I love you John."

               John stopped moving and looked up into Sherlock's face, his eyes shining with happiness.

"I love you too Sherlock."

               There was applause from the wedding party and flower petals thrown, wafting down around them and Sherlock could feel the stiffness of John's need against him.  He bent down to kiss the warm dry lips and he jerked himself roughly a few times to focus his energy.

               "Come with me." John broke away and led Sherlock through the foyer and outside into the garden, aglow with purple, no _lavender,_ fairy lights.

               Sherlock's knees nearly buckled in the shower.

               John laid his tux jacket on the ground and they folded down on it together. Hands were grappling for hair and neck and buttons and zippers. All the while Sherlock's hot breath filled John's mouth as tongues touched and explored.

               "God Yes! Yes Sherlock!"

               John struggled against him, getting close, cocks brushing and then all control was lost. Sherlock took both of them in his hand and pressed the warm springing flesh flesh springing together.

               Sherlock's mouth filled with hot water as he gasped and groaned in the shower.

               "Oh Jesus! Sherlock!" John was rutting hard breaking away from the kiss to gulp oxygen. 

               A rumbling growl came out of Sherlock as his hand clasped hard around his cock.  His free hand wrapped around John's waist and his hand stroked faster as he shot strings of cum onto the shower wall.  Sherlock steadied himself against the tile and let the shower rush over his face as he clung to the vision of the two of them dreamily stroking each other’s face and kissing gently.

               In 30 seconds the dreamscape had faded and he was in a dark hotel bathroom on the outskirts of London.  John was a memory of something that had never really been.  Sherlock didn't bother to dress; he wrapped a towel around his middle and turned the thermostat up. He yanked the bedspread back off the bed and flung himself face down on the sheets, shoving his face in the pillow.  If he hurried he could be asleep before the miasma of a good wank wore off.

Tomorrow he would be meeting with Major Sholto.

 

 


	5. Jet!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs a place to hide and someone, anyone he can trust to help him solve the growing mystery that is his Own Life. He turns to someone who already lives in isolation and mistrust of the rest of the world. A happy event occurs, but not the one Sherlock always hoped for. Greg and Molly find common ground.

Jet!

I can almost remember their funny faces

That time you told 'em that you were going to be marrying soon

And Jet,

I thought the only lonely place was on the moon

Jet!

Was your father as bold as a sergeant major?

Well how come he told you that you were hardly old enough yet?

And Jet,

I thought the major was a lady suffragette.

(McCartney)

 

 

               At 9 am the next day, when Lestrade was having a meeting with his crew regarding an ongoing credit theft ring and a suspect found floating in a canal, Mycroft, umbrella and all, swept into the Detective Inspector's office and merely said:

               "A moment of your time, Inspector?"

               His people filed out, last one being Donovan, who gave a cheeky smirk to Lestrade and rolled her eyes at Mycroft on her way out the door.

               "How do you put up with that one?" Mycroft muttered to Lestrade, as he grudgingly watched Donovan's rather extraordinarily well shaped back saunter insolently out the door.

               "She's good at her job.  She only knows you as Sherlock's brother so she doesn't know enough to be afraid." Lestrade pushed his leather ergonomic chair out from behind his desk and motioned for Mycroft to take it. Mycroft sat down and leaned back, waiting as Lestrade pulled up one of the straight back chairs meant for his crew.

               "What can I help you with Mr. Holmes?" Greg settled on the front of the seat, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

               "Mycroft, Greg." Mycroft smiled. He always allowed first names, but only after proper title and respect were proffered first.

               "Mycroft.  Is this about Sherlock?  I'm afraid I haven't seen or heard from him."

               "No.  I have my people out looking.  This is about you speaking with Dr. Watson last night.  What did you tell him?"

               Lestrade wanted to protest the invasion of privacy, but finally shrugged and answered.

               "Nothing. Well, just what you cleared me to say.  Only that I feed him cases and that John should stay away."

               Mycroft tapped the sole of his shoe with his umbrella.

               "I see.  I had a talk with the good Doctor myself last night. He was asking about Sherlock's state of mind.  It seems that Sherlock may be having another episode. And now he has disappeared. To make matters worse, John Watson is still incurably devoted to my brother even while now residing in a state of matrimony and _even_ after Sherlock nearly got him hung for treason."

               Lestrade nodded and cleared his throat. "I think once the baby comes, he will forget about Sherlock and we can get things back in the box.  Next time you pick a roommate, try someone from your staff."

               "Indeed. Who knew an officer in her Royal Army would be so...intractable.  Do me a favor. Go and call on Miss Hooper and see if she is hiding my brother. He is being very difficult to catch this time, and we have video of them having dinner the night before last."

               "I thought she was sworn to state secrecy."

               "She is, but that doesn't mean she won't give him sanctuary."

               "Fine. I can do that." Greg checked the time on his phone.  An email from John was lit with a star. Greg kept quiet about it and jutting out his chin looked back at Mycroft.

               "When Moriarty tries his next move - that is sure to make Sherlock surface." Lestrade offered as consolation.

               "It might cause John Watson to surface as well. It would be better if we found Sherlock first."

 Mycroft rose to his feet and smiled. "Keep me updated."

               He strolled out.

************

               The closer Sherlock drove toward the ocean the nicer the weather became. Maidstone was only 32 miles from London, but it seemed like another country. He turned his motorcycle south-southeast on the A229 and opened up the throttle.

               He wasn't surprised Major Sholto lived out this way. The Invicta Barracks were here, supplying Sholto with that martial atmosphere that Sherlock knew, from observing  John,  all ex-military men enjoyed.

               He took the turn off to Penenden Heath and circled the village until he hit the scattered cottages of hermits and farmers on the southwest corner.  Major Sholto was holed up in one of these, surrounded by 5 hectares of light woods and meadowland.

               ‘Very probably reinforced against prowlers and consulting detectives.’ Sherlock surmised to himself as he braked his bike on a rise a mile away. He would have to be careful. He didn't want to be observed.  

               He rolled his bike off the road and left it in a thicket of shrubs on the far side of the ditch lining the road.  He left his helmet as well. This wasn't London, not likely that there would be any cctv camera's out here, but Sherlock stuck to the cover of trees and skirted the farm house next to Sholto's property.  Checking his phone against the fading light, he had about 40 minutes until it was pitch black.  The encroaching marine layer of evening fog and low clouds would shut out moonlight.  Sherlock crunched through undergrowth until he found the fence line. Chain link, 10 feet high with 4 strands of razor wire, slanting in instead of out.  Sherlock smiled. Sholto wasn't afraid intruders coming for him, he was afraid of them getting away.

               Sherlock pulled his shoulder bag open and extracted electricians gloves and some jumper cables.  The fence wasn't marked as electric or alarmed, but he was sure it must be. He set the cable where he wanted it, and sat back under an overgrown pine waiting for dark.

************

               30 miles away, Molly Hooper was just unlocking the front door to her flat when Lestrade jogged up from the sidewalk.

               "Molly! Hey." he slowed as he reached her steps. "Can we talk?"

               "Um. Hi, Greg. Sure, come in." Molly pushed the door open and walked through. "Make yourself comfortable."

               Greg followed her in, his eyes sweeping for signs.  Molly's flat was just a one bedroom with a kitchen looking right into the living room.  Not many places to hide.  It didn’t appear that anyone had spent the day hiding out there.  There were no unwashed dishes on the counters, no telly playing in the bedroom, and the flat was cold; no one had put the heat on all day. A large orange cat began cutting figure-eights around Molly's legs as she set her backpack down on the kitchen table.

               "Want some tea?" She asked, filling the kettle.

               "Sure." He walked slowly in a large circle, checking for missing books in the bookshelf, touching the back of her desktop computer for heat, finally sitting on the couch, and waiting.

               By the time Molly had opened a tin for the cat and filled its water bowl, the kettle was whistling.  She poured into two mugs, and then searched the cabinets for something to serve as a biscuit.

               "What's the cat's name?" Greg asked.

               "Andrew" Molly answered, giving up on snacks and sitting on the couch next to him. "Here. I have to go shopping I'm afraid- out of biscuits."

               "Oh, that's alright. Thanks.  Andrew is a great name for a cat."

               "I'm afraid I don't know where Sherlock is." She blew on her tea and took a sip.

               Greg nearly choked. "What makes you say that?"

               She smiled at the tea dripping down his chin. "The only time anyone wants to talk to me, it’s about Sherlock."

               "That's not true." He protested.

               "I can go days without anyone saying a word to me, but the minute Sherlock's in trouble I'm the first stop."

               He looked at her, his mouth opened, imagining going two days without speaking a word, he wasn't sure if he envied her or pitied her.

               "Well, okay. Yeah, I'm looking for Sherlock, but you know what, we should do a drinks thing sometime, after work."

               She nodded, not really believing him.

               "That would be nice. Sherlock does that sometimes. Usually when he needs something, but it's still nice."

               "Really?" Lestrade twisted his mouth. "When was the last time he needed something?"

               Molly's heart skipped a beat, but she fancied that she hid it well.

               "Actually, I guess the last time was to thank me for setting up the paramedics to catch him when he jumped."

               Now Lestrade's mouth gaped. "Wait. Now wait. Do you...are you saying… _you_ arranged his fake suicide?"

               "Uhm. Maybe I shouldn't have said that." She suddenly remembered the non-disclosure form she had signed and wasn't sure how much Greg knew.

               He shook his head with a laugh.  "I thought Mycroft arranged all that."

               "Oh, he did! Most of it. I just helped." She backpedaled from the subject. "But anyway, that was the last time." She gulped her tea.

               "Say. Why don't we go do the drinks thing now? I have to eat, and it doesn't look like I'll be getting home anytime soon."

               "Well."

               "Come on. You said you have to go shopping, so your cupboards are bare as well. My treat. What do you say?  Maybe between the two of us we can puzzle out where Sherlock might be hiding."

               Against her better judgment Molly agreed. As much as she loved Sherlock, the silver whiskers breaking through on Greg's boyish face tripped a mother-instinct switch inside her.  She wouldn't say it made her all wobbly like Sherlock's smoldering glare, but it was disarming. She felt sure a man of ill intent would never maintain such an innocent visage all these years.  Besides, she could hold her tongue about Sherlock. For one thing, Greg wasn't even asking the right question.

******************

               Across town, without fanfare or big gatherings of friends and family, John and Mary were in a maternity ward NOT at St. Barts, and Mary was very gamely and without an epidural producing the first addition to the Watson family since John himself had been born.

               Because at Christmas Mary had insisted that she would name the baby, John smiled and shook his head when the nurse handed him his tiny pink daughter and asked if there was a name for the birth certificate. Tears filled his eyes as he recognized in his daughter proof positive why it had been a good thing after all that he was invalided home, that he met and survived Sherlock Holmes, and that some former spy had decided John Watson was a safe place to retire to.

*************

               As the light dimmed, the countryside around Sherlock stilled. The wind stopped.  Birds muttered from their perches in the trees overhead.  A dog barked from Sholto's house, and another answered from the farmhouse next door.

               Sherlock opened his bag again and pulled out some crackers and a tin of kippers.  He snacked on one fish, and then tossed the rest, sauce and all into a plastic bag.

               Hefting the  bolt cutters, Sherlock stepped up to the fence and quickly cut through enough wire to make an entrance. He squirmed through the fence.  Once through, he took the plastic bag of kippers and punctured it with his pocket knife, then he walked along the fence line, toward the house, dripping fish sauce as he did so.  100 yards along, he dumped out the kippers in a pile, and tossed the empty bag over the fence.  He ran back for his bag, unclamped one side of the jumper cables, carefully left the bolt cutters leaning against the fence and sprinted along the fence line in the opposite direction.  The sound of a door being flung open so hard that it banged against the wall of the house sent Sherlock diving headfirst into the tall wet grass.  He hugged the ground and waited.

               Dogs bayed enthusiastically and rushed toward the fence.  Alsatians, Sherlock guessed, and then berated himself for guessing.  As much as he knew about ash and brick dust and soil from every part of London, his knowledge of dogs was sadly lacking.  He knew dogs on sight from watching Crufts with John each year, but he had not done any study on what their vocalizations sounded like.  For a consulting detective that was a tragic gap of knowledge.  A bobbing flashlight followed behind the dogs.  Sherlock grunted with satisfaction. The fence was alarmed then and the breach must have shown up on a surveillance system at the main house.  Sholto lived his life on edge.

               The dogs stopped barking at the smell of kippers.  Sherlock could detect whimpers and snuffling as they followed along the trail of kippers in mustard sauce.  The beam from the flashlight traced along the fence, sweeping back and forth until it found the dogs tracking.

               Sherlock took this opportunity to sprint around the back tree line to an old barn a stone's throw from the house. He dashed behind it as he heard the man growling at his dogs to “…leave off!”  In a moment they would be on his trail.  He ran his hands over the weathered planks of the barn, searching for entrance.

               A loose board gave way under Sherlock's gloved hands.  He pulled it off with a tiny squeak of rusty nail then squeezed into the barn. Once inside he opened another tin of kippers and dumped them on the dirt floor, some 6 feet away from the loose board.

               The dogs were on the move again. He could hear them bark as they traced his tracks along the back fence. Tossing his bag in the corner, Sherlock slipped out the front of the barn and clung to the shadows as he crossed the yard to Sholto's house. The back door hung open and faint light from an interior room was visible in the frame.

               Sherlock was just stepping on to the bricked back porch when a mobile phone chirped from the darkness behind him.

               Freezing, Sherlock lifted his hands.

               "I suppose you should get that, Major." Sherlock turned and winced as the flashlight blinded him. "I'll wager it's Captain Watson announcing the birth of your granddaughter."

 

********************


	6. Golem takes a Cab Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of twos. Molly and Lestrade go out for drinks. Sherlock and Sholto have a few too many and things don't go so well.

 

Golem takes a Cab Ride  

 

            Molly was feeling a lovely warmth just behind her ears. She was on her third glass of merlot and Greg was keeping pace with pints of ale. They had forgone a restaurant for a lovely remodeled pub with an excellent selection of finger foods. She was working her way through a club sandwich and Greg had polished off his fish and chips some time ago and was poaching her crisps.

            "To me the best case Sherlock solved was the Smuggling case.” Molly volunteered.  “That was pure deduction."

            Molly recalled the moment in the cafeteria. Sherlock had said something nice and completely untrue about her hairstyle, but it had been sweet all the same.

            "I am embarrassed to admit I didn't see the tattoo on the heel. Frankly when someone comes in with a bullet to the head, you sometimes forget to check on the feet."

            "Yeah. I missed that case entirely. I was having my appendix out." Lestrade sipped his beer thoughtfully. "I hate to admit it, after all the Hell I put him through, but the way he tracked down those kidnapped kids from the residue of a footprint." Greg shook his head, in marvel and in shame.  “If he hadn’t done that, those kids would be dead now.”

            Molly nodded and smiled shyly.

            "That was partly my doing. We were working on it together. I wish you had called me when you had your doubts, I could have told you he wasn't faking it. I saw the call come in from the homeless network too."

            Greg grunted and twisted his mouth.

            "You can bet on that. From now on you'll be the first person I call, even before Mycroft."

He watched the bubbles rise in his glass for a moment. Molly got uncomfortable with the silence.

"You know, no one could blame you really for questioning some of Sherlock's cases. There were some very odd ones."

            Greg smiled softly at her and nipped a crisp.

            "There have been, haven't there? Did you see the body that was killed by the Golem?"

            "Gollem?"  Molly's eyebrows shot up.  "You mean like the creature from Lord of the Rings"?"

            "No." Greg looked puzzled. "Maybe it went to a different morgue than yours.  Golem is a hit man that is freakishly tall, over seven feet, with hands so big they could wrap around a person's face and smother him."

            “I’ve never seen a body over seven feet come through.”

            "No, you wouldn’t.  He got away. But there were a couple of victims.  They had bruises from finger tips on both sides of their heads." Greg mocked shoving his hand over his face, “Like this.  Sherlock said he was internationally known, and only ever killed by smothering."

            "Nothing like that came into my shop.” She shoved the tray with her crisps over to the Inspector. "You never caught this Golem?”

            Greg shook his head. "Never even caught site of him.  I had a bolo out on him too.  And checked cctv around the places we found the bodies.”

            “You would think someone would have seen him.  Maybe trying to catch a cab or something.”

            “Right?  It was like he never existed."

            "Maybe he didn't." Molly said, spinning her wine glass by the stem.

            "What do you know, Molly Hooper?" Greg asked.

            Both of their mobile phones alerted at the same time.  They shared a puzzled expression and opened their texts. 

            Greg pulled a grim expression and looked up at Molly. She was smiling.

            "John's baby is here." She said.

            "Here's to the end of an era." he said, lifting his pint and tapping it against her glass.

            "Poor Sherlock." Molly muttered before drinking to the toast.  

 

*****************

 

            "Helen Elizabeth Watson."  Major Sholto kept his square jawed stoic expression, but his voice was entirely too soft to pull off nonchalance.  

            "H.E.W. Hew..." Sherlock stared at the middle ground as his mind turned the initials over. Sholto looked up from the picture on his mobile phone.  He leaned back in his chair and spoke to Sherlock, who was pacing around the kitchen table.

            "How did you find out Amelia…er… Mary, is my daughter?"

            Sherlock’s right fist rhythmically bounced off his thigh as he walked.  The white tile walls of the major’s Spartan kitchen seemed to close in on him.  Somewhere John was in a similar room, surrounded by people in white lab coats and hospital scrubs, holding a tiny pink version of him and Mary, and moving further away from Sherlock with every minute the child was alive.  Sherlock did his best to look untouched.  He shrugged and turned in the light of the solitary overhead bulb to deduce to Sholto.

            "You are under constant threat of death, yet you risk all to come to a wedding? Mary has no family, only a few recent friends, yet she remembers what room you're in. She was adamant that I solve the case and save you. 'Because it means something.'”  Sherlock made quotation marks with the first two fingers of his hands.  “And she knew you well enough to know that you would keep your word and come out _after_ I solved it.  Even John, who idolizes you, was about to kick the door down.”

            Sherlock hesitated for a second.

            “Have you got something to celebrate with?  The stronger the better.”

            Major Sholto nodded and scraped the hard back chair on the floor as he stood up and retrieved a bottle of Rye from the top of the cabinet over the sink.

            “Mary,” Sherlock continued, “or Amelia if you wish, needed a place to retire to and a marriage to hide in, someone obscure would be best, and yet she chooses a man who all of England knows as the poor sod that was fooled by Sherlock Holmes the fraud.  That makes no sense, unless John came personally recommended as a good bloke who would put up with anything.  And of course there is the added assurance that even if John found out Mary was a spy, if she was the daughter of a man he admires the most of anyone in the world, then he would be less likely to pitch her out of his house.”  Feeling vaguely nauseous, Sherlock sat in the only other chair in the kitchen, across from the major.  He waved one hand expansively.

            “And just now, you admitted it.”

            "I don't think I qualify as the "man John most admires in the world" anymore. That's your post." Sholto smiled grudgingly as he sat back down with two juice glasses and the bottle.  As he poured two glasses, Sherlock plucked a cigarette out of a hard pack from his pants pocket and fired up a lighter, he sucked hard and let the cloud of nicotine and carcinogens settle in his lungs before exhaling.

"I have abdicated that position, Father-in-law. It's all yours." 

Sholto looked long and hard at Sherlock, before nodding in understanding. 

"The new baby-" 

"Hew" Sherlock supplied. 

"Family. Changes a man's perspectives. His priorities. But John would never throw you over, Holmes, not ever." 

"mmmm..." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. 

            "To Helen." Sholto handed Sherlock a glass and raised his own.

            "Yes." Sherlock grimaced and raised his own glass before draining it in one swallow and reaching for the bottle. He desperately needed something narcotic to soften the wretched twisting in his gut. Maybe Major had something for pain in his medicine chest. He would prowl around later, but in the meantime alcohol would have to do. He winced at the memory of the last time he had been drunk, on a pub crawl with John the week of his wedding.

            "Fuck It." he said aloud and poured a tumbler full of whiskey. "Don't you want to know why I’m here, Major Sholto?"

            Sholto's ice blue eyes raked over Sherlock's face before clearing his throat.

            "I do."

            "I need a place to stay. And I need you to keep quiet about.”

            "Of course you’re welcome to stay, as long as you like.  You did save my life after all, but why didn't you just knock on the front door?"

            "I had to make sure that no one else was here. If you had security or live in help, they would have revealed themselves during the chaos."

            "You could have called."

            Sherlock drank a third of the tumbler in a gulp and had to forcibly swallow to get it down. The resulting burn left his voice hoarse,

            "I don't have your number."

            "John does..."

            "I Really can't talk to anyone right now. Especially John. You didn't just text him that I was here did you?"

            "No. I haven't answered yet." He looked at his phone again and smiled at the picture of his grand baby.

            "Well, go on then. Text back. But on your honor, promise me if anyone asks about me, even John, you haven't seen or heard from me. "

            "Of course. You have my word. But..."

            "But what?"

            "Surely, you and Watson, you've been mates for so long. Why are you...oooohh. It’s that Moriarty fellow. You are faking your death again. "

            Sherlock blinked, then smiled grimly.

            "Yes. And now there are two more innocents involved. Mary and little Helen. So you see how critical it is that John, most of all, doesn't know of my whereabouts."

            Sholto nodded, his jaw even more lantern like if possible . "Absolutely. Is there anything I can do to help?"

            Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the overhead lamp.

            "There might be. You being so high up in the military, how would you broadcast a message over every cable and television network at the same time?"

            "Well, that's actually simple. Dictatorships do that already. Just control the satellite feed."

            "Ah. And anyone could do that?"

            "No. That can only be done by the government systems. I suppose if a civilian could crack into the system, what do they say 'hack in'? then they could control it remotely.  I'm afraid I don't have that skill set. But I am guessing that there must be a handful of people with the codes who might be compromised."

            "Indeed. The person I'm after is the ultimate 'compromiser'. Is there anyone you know in the military who could access the system?"

            "Why? Do you want to send a message of your own?"

            Sherlock sipped his drink, then ducked his head shyly and smiled.

            "You've found me out. Well why not?  It would show him that his hand is exposed, and put the fears of the subjects of England to rest. Do you think we could do that?"

            Sholto nodded and stood up. "I know someone. He owes me. Do you want a cigar? I feel very much like celebrating."

            "Oh, why not?" Sherlock smiled broadly and tipped the glass of whiskey down his throat. This Major Sholto was turning out to be a greater resource than he dare imagine.

 

***************

            "Which one is yours?"

            A kindly old white-haired biddy leaned into Molly and Greg as they stood sde by side in front of the nursery window.

            Molly coughed and grinned nervously.  "Oh, we're not..."

            "That one.”Greg spoke loudly, drowning out Molly's stutter. "The one with the pink blanket."  He took Molly's hand and kissed her knuckles with an evil grin. Molly blushed furiously.

            "Oh, she's lovely. That's my grandson on the back row there."

            "Oh, stout lad." Greg admired.

            "Thank you. Its exciting isn't it? New life and all."

            "Very."  Greg agreed.

            The three watched the nurses tending to their tiny garden of babies.

            "Hey! Molly, Greg. You showed up! Brilliant! How nice of you to come by." John came up behind them with two cups of cafeteria tea.

            Molly turned delighted and moved to hug him, but had to settle for an awkward side hug to avoid the steaming cups.

            "John! Of course we'd come.” Molly’s eyes shone.

            “Give me that," Greg took the cup from John's right hand so he could give him a proper handshake. "Good for you mate. She's beautiful."

            The white haired grandmother looked puzzled. Molly gave her a sweet smile and turned back to John.

            "How is Mary?"

            "Oh, good. Great really. The doctor said he'd never seen a more stoic delivery."

            The light changed and they all turned to see that the bright overhead light in the nursery had been shut off and replaced with dim night lights.

            "Oh. Bed time then." John looked wistfully in at his daughter.

            "They'll bring her out later to nurse, John." Molly patted his forearm comfortingly.

            "Yeah." he sighed, then turned back to his friends.

            "So you two happened to show up at the same time?"

            "Na, we were having dinner when we got your text."

            "Oh really?" his eyebrows disappeared into his bangs.

            Greg laughed at the expression on his face.

            Molly was vacillating between being pleased and embarrassed. She settled for a shy Mona Lisa smile.

            Greg handed John back his cup of tea. The white haired grandmother wandered away down the corridor to the birthing suites.  John followed her movement for a second with his eyes.

            "I suppose it's past visiting hours." Greg jammed his fists into his coat pockets.

            "Oh, yeah, seems like." John nodded, then cleared his throat. "I sent a text to Sherlock, didn't get a reply."

            "Oh, you know Sherlock, if he's gone into hiding, he probably threw his phone in the Thames." Greg shrugged. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and rested it on John's shoulder. "You don't need him around right now, anyway. Scaring the nurses and upsetting Mary. I'm sure he'll show up soon and then you'll wonder why you ever missed him."

            "So you haven't found him? Not yet?"

            "Well, it's not really my job, is it? Mycroft has all of his people out looking. Don't worry. He's done this before, you know. He'll turn up. You just go on and be a daddy to that beautiful little..."

            "Yeah, look, what is this Greg" John shifted his weight to his other foot. "Everyone keeps telling me to go home and stay put. What are you not telling me?"

            He looked at Molly.  "Do you know where Sherlock is?"

            "No, John. I haven't seen him in two days."  She answered truthfully.

            "Two days? Did he seem strange to you?"

            "Well, not really. Excited maybe..." She suddenly shut up.

            "Excited about what?"

            "Oh, you know, just things.  You know Sherlock."

            "We should let you get that tea to Mary." Greg applied pressure to the hand on John's shoulder. "It's going to be stone cold."

            John shrugged off Lestrade’s hand.  

            "Mary likes it cold...listen Molly, did Sherlock ask you about the cabbie?"

            "I...uhm."

            "That's part of an ongoing investigation, John,” Lestrade stepped in. “Molly could get in trouble for talking..."

            "On going investigation? That was three years ago!"

            "Yes, and it has bearing on some cold cases we still have open."

            "Bollocks, Greg. What is all this? I thought we were all friends."

            "We are friends, John." Lestrade let his arm slide around John's shoulders and he started walking him down the hall to Mary's room. "But now you’re out of the detective business, you can't have access to files and stuff like you used to."

            Molly twisted her handbag nervously, then pulled out her mobile phone and typed out a message to John.

    “ _Questions_?”

            She waited to hit send until Greg took his arm off John and turned around, then she pressed the button and shoved her phone quickly in her coat pocket.

 

***************

 

            When Sherlock opened his eyes, his entire body sent jangling alarms of pain jolting into his brain.  A bare light bulb swung overhead, the glare torching his eyes and reflecting blindingly off the suffocatingly close white walls.

            Sherlock struggled to catch his breath, but couldn't stop hyperventilating which spiraled his dizziness into a terrifying sensation of vertigo. He clenched his teeth swearing

            "Fuck no! Fuck no! No! No! NO no no nonono!!!"

            God No! His crotch was warm and wet, he'd pissed himself again.

            "Why? Why? What do you want? Please!"

            He struggled against his bonds. He was strapped hand and foot to a hard back chair; his arms tight behind, dead from loss of circulation.

            Oh Jesus! He was going to be sick. In this position he would drown himself. He rolled his head as much as he could to the side and was sick down the side of himself.

            Ah! God! He stank.

            "Why? Please tell me." he began to sputter and beg. Tears ran impossibly hot down his cheeks.  "Oh god. Please, just kill me. Please. No more."

            "Sherlock! Sherlock!"

            Rough hands shook him violently.  A sharp slap stung his cheek, reducing his wails to muttered weeping. A splash of something cold and stinging was dashed into his face. He clamped his mouth shut and exhaled out his nose to stop its entrance into the body.

            "My god, his survival instincts are unparalleled," a sinister voice whispered from the corner.

            His hatred for that voice brought him to stiff attention.

            "You had better kill me, and make a bloody good job of it or I will burn the heart out of you.” He tried to keep the hiccup out of his voice, putting as much steel in it as he could.

            The voice on the outside of the bright circle of light laughed delightedly.

            "Not very original is he." the stage whisper was meant to fill his ears.

            Sherlock launched himself, chair and all at the sound of the man’s voice.

His body landed with a thump, the chair skittered away. He laughed triumphantly. His rage had burned through his bonds. His arms were so numb he couldn't feel his hands but he trusted them to go where he commanded and he levered himself up to a crouch and then flung himself into the shadows, at the voice.

            He crashed head first into a wall.  
            Stunned he decided escape was the better plan. He picked up the chair and shattered it on the floor, hanging onto the splintered chair leg, he swung it wickedly about him.

            "Stay back'! I'll kill you all!"

            "Sherlock! Stop! Oh Fuck!"

            A door banged open as his jailers ran for their lives.  A pitch black rectangle opened up to freedom.  He backed through, sweeping the splintered chair leg from side to side to stop Moriarty from capturing him. 

            He stumbled down the three steps to the yard but managed to save himself by back pedaling manically.

            He heard an urgent voice

            "John! John! It’s Sherlock! He's mental! Something has happened. No! Stay! Stay!"

            Sherlock turned to the voice.

            "John?"

            A snarling snapping beast flung itself at Sherlock knocking him hard on his back, and savagely going for his throat.  Sherlock stabbed it in the ribs with the splintered chair leg, it yelped and let go.

            "Titus! Here! Get here! Oh god, John he's killed my dog. Get someone out here!"

            Sherlock ran blindly off into the darkness.

*************

 

            "What is it, John?" Mary's voice slurred slightly from sleep.

            "I have to go," John said distractedly; his mind already working out distances and means of transport.

            "Go? Where?" Mary tried to sit up.

            "I don't know. It's Sherlock."

            He snatched his coat and was at the door before he remembered to run back to her bedside and kiss her.

            "Bye." he said.

            "What? Now?"

            John didn't answer, his heels were already striking the tiles as he ran down the darkened corridor to the hospital exit.


	7. Echoes of the Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is having a terrible flashback and no one is safe.

 

  

Echoes of the Hound

 

            Sherlock ran blindly toward a vaguely remembered boundary that he had climbed over last time.  The dark, foggy night was a gift from God, but it wouldn’t last.  Any second the harsh lights would flood the grounds. He literally was moments away from being apprehended again, and dragged back into the sterile white cell; sterile except for his own stink of piss and shit and dried vomit on his shirt.

            If he had retained the use of words at this point he might have vowed: "Not again. They will never take me alive!" however, all that was left in him at this second was animal fear and a searing compulsion to escape.  The knowledge that they had the wherewithal to capture him again, without killing him, froze his blood and made his running even faster.

            He was looking for brick. _The brick wall_. So he actually ran into the chain link fence before he realized it; bouncing off it and landing on his back with an audible thud. It took him a few seconds to get air back into his lungs.

            What was this?  Last time he escaped it had been brick wall, a mere eight feet high, with a single roll of razor wire coiled along the top. 

            A straightforward escape, he recalled.  He had simply leapt up, grabbed the wire (hands be damned!) and rolled over the top; the metal, knife-edged spikes shredding his side and back in the process with deep cuts that had taken weeks to heal.

            What were lacerations compared to electricity crashing through his brain like a cannon ball, turning  thoughts and memory into shrapnel, with complete and utter disregard for the one thing he considered holy? 

            A whimper forced itself out through his nose as he remembered the taste of copper in his mouth.  He spun around desperately.  Any second he would be blinded by search lights.  He needed cover.  A hulking shadow to his right beckoned to him.

            A barn.

            Lights came on with an audible claxon in his head.  He dove into the space behind the building and the fence.  The lights reached back here, but it was out of the line of sight of the hospital building.  Not shelter, but a momentary respite.

            He searched the fence for an answer, but the four strands of razor wire slanted inward were impossible to climb. On the other side of the wire fence an orchard of trees stood in ghostly ranks, their trunks paper white in the floodlights.  If only he could get to their cover.

Dogs barked and a man shouted. Sherlock, finding no escape up, turned his eye downward,  searching the barn…wait.

            A loose board.

            He was inside in a flash.  He pulled the board after him and looked for a place to hide.

In the dark, remembered lights burned into his retinas and made him functionally blind.  He stumbled toward a darker corner feeling his way along the wall and tripped over a soft canvas bag.

 

            Sherlock quickly disentangle his feet from the shoulder strap and felt a hard pipe-like object inside.  He opened the bag to be assaulted by the smell of fish, and grimaced  as he shoved his hand in and rooted around.

            A flashlight.

            What a godsend.

            Outside he heard doors slamming and a man shouting.  Sherlock turned on the flashlight and swept it around the inside of the old structure.  A steep set of steps lead up to a loft over his head.

            He knew, from years of working cases, that the primate instinct in people sent them scurrying upward when trouble came, even if the best idea was to look for a back door or side window.

            Well he knew there was no back door, and the front door was in plain sight of the main building.  So up it was.

            The wood in the loft was soft and nearly gave way under foot. It smelt of apples and decay.  Proper smells for a place.  Not disinfectant and alcohol and the ghost of excrement and screams.  He fought down panic and forced himself to look around.

            A door.

            In the wall, that faced the fence.

            "Sherlock!"  A man's voice, unfamiliar, shouted.  "Sherlock! John is coming!"

            Sherlock whimpered again.

            Why. John.

            Why John?

            Why, John?

            He ripped into two people. One was happy John was coming. One was devastated.

He laughed darkly.

            John was one of them.

            John was coming.

            John betrayed him.

 

            Would he have to kill John?

 

            He would kill for John. He would quite cheerfully _be_ killed for John. But he would not go back inside "there" for anyone, not even John.

 

            Sherlock heard the sound of a car door slamming. 

 

            Was _he_ here already?

 

            His body vibrated with nervous tension.  If John stood in the light, just there, outside the barn door, with his fair-haired shrugging- normality and oh-so-calm tone of voice, would Sherlock be able to resist?

 

            If they had him again, his mind would go.  Shattered like glass, ripping him to shreds from the inside out until blood ran from his eyes and ears. 

 

            He had to be gone.

            He turned to the door in the wall behind him. It was closed with a simple latch, not locked. He swung the door open and gasped at the simple flaw in the institution’s security. 

 

            From here he was above the fence. Eight feet away was freedom. The paper barked trees of the orchard were the remnant of the farm this used to be. Once the people must have harvested the fruit and hauled it up to this loft, through the upper door.

            Eight feet. He could jump that, right?  If he had enough room for a running start.

            Without preamble, Sherlock backed to the end of the loft and ran for the opening.  The old wood of the loft sagged  dangerously beneath each foot fall, but held.  He launched himself with pin wheeling arms, grabbing at fleeing molecules in the air to pull him further on, and with nothing to spare he cleared the razor wire. 

            His shirt did not; billowing behind, it hung up on the savage top of the chain link fence, stopping him for a fraction of a second before ripping.  Sherlock dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. From this sprinter’s stance, he exploded into a wild run.

            Freedom at last.

 

************

 

 

            John was weeding through the apps on his phone, searching for a map application  to guide him to Maidstone when he noticed the star on his text inbox.

            He was of a mind to ignore it, but then had a mental image of Major Sholto crouched in hiding as a mad Sherlock searched him out with a harpoon.   It could be James texting him.

            John pressed the icon.  Molly’s name headed the text.

            Molly?

            He opened it, " _Questions_?"  was all it said.

            "Nothing but."  John spoke out loud.

            He hit ‘call back’ and put it on speaker.

 

************

 

            Across town Molly was feeling a most unfamiliar yet frankly wonderful sensation as she stood in the middle of her living room.  Lestrade had been most chivalrous in his behaviour.  He opened doors, shut blinds and then helped Molly out of her coat, stopping to shift her ponytail out of the way to lay a most chaste kiss on the small of her neck. 

            Molly had shivered violently and felt a tickle in her stomach that had not been present for a very long time.

            When her phone jingled, she stifled a curse, but Greg did not.

            "Fuck" he swore, then  softer, "Sorry."

            "It's probably nothing.  Maybe someone from work." She said as she walked to her phone on the kitchen table.  She twisted her lips as she saw John's name on the screen.  She turned her back to Greg as she answered.

            "Molly Hooper." She used her 'work voice',  "Can I help you?"

            "It's John."

            "What? Can't you take care of that yourself?"  She turned to glance at Greg, and grimaced.

            John was quiet for a second, then he caught on.

            "Oh. Is Greg there?"

            "Yes. Can this wait until tomorrow?"  The pleading in her voice was clear, and John couldn't help but grin at the fact that little Molly Hooper was being cock-blocked by Sherlock Holmes.

            "Afraid not.  I just got a call from a friend.  Sherlock is having some kind of psychotic break.  He is a danger to himself and others.  He is waving a weapon."

            "Oh." Molly grew serious.  "Maybe we need to call someone?"

            "I think you're the last person he still trusts.  I'm coming to get you.  Can you get away?"

            "Yes. I will be at the hospital in ten minutes."

            "I will see you there.  Don't tell Greg, he will get Mycroft involved.  I don't think Sherlock would calm down for Mycroft."

            "Whatever you say.  See you in a bit."

            She hung up and turned to Greg with genuine regret.

            "Oh, don't tell me..." he groaned.

 

 

***********

 

 

            Mycroft Holmes was looking for once a little worse for the wear.  He was several hours, _fine_ -  A day past due on a shower and a change of clothes.  A nap, preferably of four hour duration would not go amiss, and the onion that had been on the take out deli sandwich he had for lunch was repeating on him in most unpleasant ways.  

            The search was turning up nothing.  Not a hair.  He even tried to access the gps device and was told it was not functioning.

            This was not going to go over well at Christmas.  Not only had he broken his little brother, but he'd lost him too.

            His mobile rang, and he frowned at the number.  A land line, and not one he recognized. Normally he would not take such a call, but it _could_ be his brother calling to torment him.

            "Mycroft Holmes speaking."

            His secretary  rushed in holding a pink bottle of liquid antacid.  He paused, seeing Mycroft engaged.

            "Oh hello, Mary. Why are you calling from a landline?"

            Mycroft made a "come hither" motion with his hand and the nervous young man scuttled forward, twisting the plastic seal off the bottle and cracking open the top.

            "Where is your phone? Ahhh, well, congratulations.  But why do you feel compelled to call me in the middle of the night with this news?"

            Mycroft took the measuring cup from his secretary and let the treacle thick liquid ooze down his throat.  He sputtered at the answer Mary gave him and quickly pressed the back of his hand to his mouth until he could swallow.

            "Ahem. What do you mean, “turned up”?  Where is he?"  Mycroft picked up a pen to take notes.

            "Well, call John and find out.  Yes.  I appreciate that new borns need a lot of nourishment.   Now that I've been informed of that,   _will you please call your husband and get a_ _location_?  I will be waiting....  No, Mary.  Before you feed...wait..." he gasped with frustration.

            "Very well.  Feed the child and then call John.  I will be waiting.  Helen, that's fine, lovely name, now _Agent_ Watson, if we could return to the task at hand.  I will expect your call in five minutes.  What?  Oh, for ffff... fine, fifteen minutes."

            Mycroft rang off in a huff, but he smiled none the less.  It wouldn't be long now.  Perhaps Christmas could be salvaged after all.

            "Peters, I am taking a quick shower, will you lay out my extra suit?"  He pulled off his tie as he walked to his private bath.  “Oh, and have Anthea put out a search for John Watson’s mobile phone location, immediately.”

 

********* 

            “So.” John said, as he and Molly sped away from St. Bartholomew’s hospital, “You sent me a text?”

 

            “Yes.” She actually squirmed a bit, it would be good to help Sherlock out.

            “Well, I have questions.  You have answers?” 

            “I do. To some questions.”

            John’s phone began to play ‘Benny and the Jets’. 

            “Oh, that’s Mary, hold on.”  He reached for his phone, but before he could answer Molly snatched it from his hand and pulled the back panel off, pulling out the battery.

 

            “Hey!  That’s my wife!  She may have some emergency.”

            “She does not.  She is fine.  The baby is fine.  You can’t have your phone on, or they will track us.”

            “What about your phone?”  John sputtered.

            “I left mine at my house.”

            “Well, who the _hell_ are _they_?”

            Molly gave John a glare under lowered eyebrows that looked suddenly for all the world like Mycroft.

            “Mycroft?” It was half question half snarl.

            “I don’t know honestly.  But Sherlock was always sure someone was tracking him.  Sometimes I think he might be right.”

            “He is a sociopath, Molly, as I have been informed repeatedly over the last four days.  He _would_ think someone was tracking him.”

            “Mmmmm.”  Molly said, dropping the subject and looking out the window.  “Where are we going?”

            “Maidstone.  Major Sholto, you remember him, the guy who almost got killed at my wedding?  He said Sherlock turned up there and then had a psychotic break down.”

            “How would he know?”  Molly bristled.

            “He is a veteran of several wars, James knows PTSD when he sees it.  He said Sherlock passed out, and woke up like a different person.”

            Molly exhaled. “That’s more than PTSD,” she mused.

 

            “Yep.”  John nodded solemnly.  “He killed one of the Major’s dogs.  The Major just let him go.  He was afraid for his life.”

            “Poor Sherlock.”  Molly said. She put the pieces of John’s phone in the glove box.

            “Poor Sherlock?  What about Major Sholto?”

            “John, if you knew half the stuff I knew you would never blame Sherlock for anything again.”

            “So tell me.  For being his 'best friend' I seem to know the least about him. You said if I had “questions”, well I have questions.”

            “I can’t just tell you things.  I have signed four secret agreement papers with the government, and if I just opened up, I would spend the rest of my life in prison.”

            “Not much good then, are you?” John smiled, but there was vitriol behind it. 

            “Well, if you ask me the right questions, I could tell you some things, and if it’s a top secret kind of question I would have to say “I can’t speak about that subject.”  Which, if you are clever, should tell you something also.”

            “What should I ask?”

            “I don’t know John, ask what you want to know.”

            “Sherlock said people always ask the wrong question.”  John mused, as he navigated the round about to get on the M2. “Okay.  Before things got really bad, I came to him and asked him if it was true that he knew Mycroft had arrested all the snipers before he jumped off the roof. ”

            “What did he say?”  Molly asked.

            “He said he wasn't sure.”  John glanced at her.  “Did he?”

            “When Sherlock was at the hospital that day he was panicked about snipers.  He kept away from windows and wouldn’t let me near him.  He said anyone who touched him was shot.”

 

            John felt such relief, he actually sagged in his seat.  “So when he jumped, he was trying to fool the snipers, not me.”  John laughed softly.  He reached across the seat and took Molly’s hand in his and squeezed it.

Molly's jaw ached and she opened her mouth wide to relive the tension. Her eyelids fell closed as she relived the terrible guilt of hiding Sherlock's secret from John. 

            “Thank you.”  He laughed again, louder, as he felt flooded with something like euphoria.

            Molly nodded unseen in the dark car.   “Sure.”

            “Oh, god, what a load off.”  He finally let go of her hand.  “What else?”

            “Such as?”

            “Mmmm.  Oh, I know.  The Cabbie.  Sherlock said the Cabbie died of consuming his own poison, but the papers said that he was shot.  What happened?”

            “I can’t speak about that.”  She turned toward John.  “Ask a different way.”

            “Oh.”  John was knocked off course for a second.  “Sherlock said the Cabbie was dead, but I had not killed him.”

            “You?”  It was Molly’s turn to be confused.  “Why would you think you killed him?”

            John shrugged.  “Because I shot him.  Through the window.  I saw he had a gun and that Sherlock was about to take a pill, so I shot him.”

            “Really.”  Molly slid a little closer to the door. 

            “Molly, I’m not some crazy murderer.  I was just defending Sherlock.”

            “I see.  Well.”  She chose her words carefully,  “I can say this.  The man who was shot did not die.”  She looked pointedly at John as if he should infer something from this.

            “So the Cabbie did not die?”

            “I cannot speak to that.”

            “What?  But you just said he did not die.   Oh hell, this is giving me a headache.”  John drove along, his right elbow resting on the door and his index finger gently rubbing his eyebrow.  Molly waited patiently.

            “Wait.  The man I shot did not die.”

            “Exactly.”

            “But you cannot tell me if the Cabbie died.”

            “Right.”

            “But that makes no sense, because …Oh.”  John’s mouth formed a perfect circle.   “Then the man I shot….wait…was Not the …Cabbie?”

            “Ummm…”

            “Then who was he?”

            “I cannot speak about that subject.”

            “No wonder Sherlock went crazy.”  John was getting frustrated.  “This could take forever.  Look.  Can you tell me what Sherlock is afraid of?  Why has he run away?”

            “I don’t know, honestly, but he was sure someone was coming for him.  He started asking me questions, because he was having gaps in his memory.  That frightened him more than anything I have ever seen.  You know he is proud of his mind.”

            “Defined by it, I would say.”  John nodded.

            “Exactly.  It is who he is.  Well suddenly he was having gaps.  He didn’t know some things that he felt he should have.  He came to me to ask about things in the past.  Then he came back, in disguise and said to be careful, to stay quiet, he wanted me to leave town.  He said he was in danger and that was the last I saw of him.”

            “Paranoia.”  John frowned.

            “Maybe.  Maybe not.”

            “What do you mean?  Maybe not.?”

            “Well, I can say this, because no one has made me sign a confidentiality paper, but shortly after Sherlock came back, from his long time away...”

            “His resurrection.” John twisted the steering wheel in his grip.

             “Right.  Well he came to the lab one evening and said he needed me to x-ray him.”

            “X-ray?”

            “Yes.  All over.  Head to toe.  He said he was implanted with a locating device, he just didn’t know where.  I thought he was bonkers, but to make him feel better, I went along with it.  We went down to radiology and he paid off the tech to leave us alone for an hour.  We started with his skull and worked our way down.”

            “You didn’t find anything did you?”  For some reason the hairs on John’s arms began to bristle.

            “We did.  In the back of his thigh.  Surgically implanted, about an inch below the surface.  You would never know it was there.  But it showed up on the x-ray.”  


            “What did you do?”

            “He insisted I remove it.  Put some lidocaine on the spot and cut it out and sutured it back up.”

            “What did it look like?”  John was aghast.

            “Like a pill shape.  But obviously not a pill, bigger.  I didn’t get to look inside.  Sherlock took it and left.   I assume he bashed it to bits somewhere.”

            “Did he say how it got there?”

            “He had no idea.  But he said people had been tracking him, and he was so careful that the only way they could have found him was with a transmitter. He changed all his clothes and quit taking cabs. But he said he was still followed.”

            “What the fuck happened to him while he was “dead’?” John wondered then cut off his own question at the sight of the road sign to Maidenstone. 

            “Here’s our turn off.”


	8. Thor Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The net is tightening around a runaway Sherlock. He turns to his only friend, the one that no one believed counted.

Thor Bridge

 

            As Mycroft stepped out of the shower there was a rap at the bathroom door. He wrapped a towel around his hips.

            "Come"

            Anthea opened the door, Mycroft flinched. A nervous smile tightly flitted across his face before he managed a mask of neutrality.

            "Yes?" He turned to the mirror to comb his hair.

            "Agent Watson just called. John Watson's phone is off. "

            "Well of _course_ it is.” Mycroft focused on making a knife edge part in his hair. Anthea stepped forward, extending her arm as far as possible to stay out of Mycroft’s personal space, and handed him a note.

            "She did, however, have a gps installed on the family car and has the coordinates for that."

            Mycroft smiled broadly. "There you are.  Once a spy always a spy." He looked over the row of numbers. “This is south of here.” He mused.

            “Yes sir, Maidstone.”

 

***

            Sherlock ran like a hare for three miles before blowing out.  He bent over, hands on knees, and gulped for oxygen. Even in the dark of a country road he still felt the panic of floodlights and confinement. A dog barked to the right of him. How far away? Another barked to his left.

            Hounds?

            The road he ran on provided little in hiding places, but the smell of asphalt would trouble the noses of hounds more than a broken run through tall grass and grasping thickets.  He had to make it to town.

 _“Obvious_.”   He heard the dark syrup of his own voice in his head. and marveled at the absolute confidence with which it spoke.  “ _Moriarty will expect you to run to town_.   _Mycroft will too._ “

            “But out in the open I am visible to the stars.” He argued aloud, his voice carrying.  He looked up for signs of distant lights.

            “ _Go on then_.”  The voice of young Sherlock answered.  Sherlock nodded.  He inhaled two lungful’s of air, super-oxygenating his blood, and then took off on long legs like a steeplechaser.

 

***********

 

            John parked his car a block away from the Major’s house. He and Molly walked silently toward the bright lights of the Sholto compound.  The residence was abandoned. The front door was wide open as was the gate to the back of the property. The garage was open and empty.

            “Sherlock?” John called.  He poked his head into the front room of the farm house and listened.  “Major?”

            The only answer was the ticking of a grandfather clock.

            “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s home.” Molly said.

            “I want to have a quick look around, just in case Major Sholto is lying with his head bashed in."

            They walked through the living room and stopped in the kitchen doorway.  Molly’s nose wrinkled.

            “Someone was sick.”

            John nodded going slightly pale from the signs of obvious human madness. One of the kitchen chairs was splintered with incredible force.  Smears of vomit and the rank smell of piss  attacked John with fear. Sherlock had done this? He shook his head.

            "I've never seen Sherlock lose his nerve." He said to Molly.

             John peered at a clutch of black hairs from the forehead sized divot in the drywall.   Sherlock must have run straight into the wall, unseeing.  He suddenly recalled that moment, so fleeting, when he and Sherlock had talked themselves into the Baskerville animal lab, with its blinding, fluorescent lights and that one shrieking monkey. Sherlock had literally shrunk back in fear. It had lasted a fraction of a second, but John noticed it for what it was; muscle memory. Sherlock had flinched the same way John would duck and look for cover when he heard any noise that sounded like gunshot.

            "I've seen him scared." Molly said, noting the mark on the wall that John was looking at.  "Not out of his mind, though."

            "He drugged me once, and then subjected me to a terrifying experiment." The sentence left his mouth even as the part of him that was still Sherlock’s stalwart friend wrestled to get the words back.

            Molly looked at him with assessing eyes. She said nothing, and the words kept coming out, like an uncontrolled bodily function in a crowd of strangers.

            "He gave me what he thought was an hallucinogen and then locked me in a lab and played monster noises over the loud speaker."

            "My God." Molly exclaimed.

            "I...you know… I was in a war…at that moment I thought I was going to die."

            "How terrible.”

            "Sherlock seemed so comfortable with the _idea_ of doing that, to me." To John’s horror his voice cracked . “Why would he think that was okay?”

            "You left that part out of your blog."

            "I think…” John plucked the hair from the wall and tucked it in his coat pocket, “that he is having flash backs.”

            "That would explain the sudden onset.”

            “Something must have happened to him during his two years dead.” John clenched his fist.

            “Or…given what you say about Baskerville, maybe even before.”

            John looked at Molly as if he had never seen her before.  No wonder Sherlock valued her so.  She had an elastic mind and knew how to submerge emotion when intellect was necessary. Here he was ready to take on the entire underworld of crime to avenge his friend, and Molly had instead worked with the clues.

            “What are you saying?” John asked.

            “What if Sherlock has undergone treatment in an institution.”

            “I would have known.”

            “Before you. Before me even.”

            John’s stomach flipped as his doctor’s mind skimmed over what he knew of available treatments.

            “Are you thinking drugs?”

            “Or even ECT.”

            “That’s barbaric. Electroshock has been discontinued.” John argued, even though he could well imagine the same family that produced Mycroft Holmes might have thought it just the thing to snap young Sherlock out of a sociopathic mania or his drug addiction.

            “It’s making a comeback.” Molly said, moving through the kitchen and out through the back door. They moved out into the back patio and stood silent over the pool of blood left by Sholto's dog. John shook himself.

            "Got to see a man about a dog." he said.

            "What?" Molly looked up.

            "The last thing Sherlock said, before we left Baskerville, ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.'"

            "Yes..." Molly was pacing off bloody footprints that led from the puddle to the gate. 

John tried valiantly to shake off the sensation that this was all some mad dream and he would wake up in the hospital asleep in the hard backed chair next to Mary’s bed. The other-world impression of flood lights against inky darkness made it all seem like a stage. The night was cold, as the smoke issuing from their mouths with every breath proved, but he was sweating under his light jacket.

            "It’s like we’re in a play." he said to Molly.

            Molly stopped and looked up at him.

            “Why don’t you go back to Mary?  I can take it from here.”

            "What the hell, Molly?” Anger shot through his system.  Molly didn’t back down. Her dark eyes glittered.

            "Listen to me John Watson. We are trying to find the most brilliant man in England, a man who doesn't want to be found, and neither one of us is anywhere near as smart as he is. Got it? We need to _both_ be thinking clearly on this okay? No day dreaming. No trips down memory lane and no guilt. Understood? If you can't help, then get in your car and go back to your wife, Sherlock needs us now, not after you have processed all this and blogged about it.”

             John was thunderstruck by the virulence of the speech and embarrassed at the truth of it. He wasn't being clear, because Sherlock wasn't here. Sherlock focused him. Sherlock separated wheat from chafe with a wave of his dismissive hand, leaving only the relevant exposed for John to see. With no Sherlock, Molly would have to do.

            "Yes." he nodded. "I understand."

            He looked around for tracks or sign. Sherlock would have gathered all possible traces of evidence before eliminating the unnecessary.

The bloody footprints led around the house to the gate. They were too wide for Sherlock's boots, so they had to be Sholto’s.

            "James must have picked up his dog and got in his car. He is probably at the veterinary."

            "Good." Molly nodded in agreement.

            John spun the other way, looking out into the well-lit meadow.

            "The gate would have been closed when Sherlock ran outside.  He thought he was in a prison or something, so he would have run as far from..." he stopped and turned to Molly. "Behind that barn is the closest cover."  John set out in the dewy grass and was happy to notice the last remaining impressions in the grass of earlier footfalls.  

            "There.” Molly gasped breathless, pointing up at the flapping scrap of shirt fabric on the coils of razor wire.

            "How the hell did he make that jump? Does he have wings?" then John spotted the open door high in the back wall of the barn.   "Oh, right. He jumped from there.”

            They looked out through the dead orchard into the darkness beyond.

            “He wouldn’t have stopped in the trees. He’s convinced he just escaped captivity.” John reasoned.

            “Maybe towards town?" Molly guessed.

            "Let's go. We can't be far behind. The dog’s blood is still wet."

            They turned as a team and trotted back to the house. Before they could step inside, John's ears picked up the familiar sound of rotors speeding their way.

            "Helicopter".

            "What?" Molly looked upward, seeing nothing in the night sky. "I don’t..."

            "He's flying with no running lights. Breaking every code..."

            A search light blazed on revealing the helicopter across the road from the house and less than a thousand feet up.

            "Jesus. Hide!"

            John grabbed Molly's arm. They dashed for cover behind the garage. The searchlight swung around, picking out the open gate and the pool of blood on the patio. It then swung around the grounds, sweeping the fence line before lighting up the whipping grass below it. The helicopter came to a fast landing, nearly thudding as it landed in the open field behind Major Sholto’s house.

            Molly and John slid along the side of the old garage, and crouched behind some dustbins.  

            "Can we make a dash for the car?" Molly wondered.

            "They'll see us." John shook his head. 

            A squad of men in night ops gear poured out of the airship and fanned out.

            “It’s fucking Mycroft.” Molly swore. John cocked an eyebrow at Molly’s cursing.

            Mycroft stepped out of the helicopter. His crisp white button up shirt and leather windbreaker contrasted sharply with his Night Ops crew and their flat black uniforms. John counted eight troopers. Four moved forward toward the house, two kept an eye on the back half of the property. Two stayed next to Mycroft as he strode to the back door of the house. John estimated they were less than ten seconds from discovery and he rested a hand on Molly’s shoulder  about to say they might as well surrender themselves with dignity, when headlights pulled up the drive.

 

            Molly and John and nine members of MI6 all turned to watch Major Sholto step out of his car, his one whole dog, leaping out after. Then he reached back in and pulled out Titus, the dog Sherlock had stabbed, who was wrapped tightly in bandages around her ribs. The Elizabethan collar forced its head to loll backwards as Sholto struggled under the dog’s weight.

            A low growl sounded and John watched horrified as the healthy dog spotted the helicopter and strangers in his yard. He saw the dog bristle and explode in a charge even as Sholto looked up in shock and  eight rifles raised and sighted on his other dog. John leapt out, arms high, and shouted

            "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" as he stepped between the snarling men and beast.

            The dog was startled at the appearance of another man directly in his path, and it stopped him long enough for Sholto to shout a command.

            "Caesar! Down!"

            The dog lowered himself down , trembling with barely contained rage. John looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye as she started to rise and join him. He shook his head 'no'.

Molly sank back down  With all eyes on John and Major Sholto and his bristling dog, she could have stood in plain sight and not been noticed. John lowered his hands and casually shoved them in his pockets.

            "He's not here Mycroft."

            "John Watson.". Mycroft said, "Why do you imagine I would believe you?"

            "Oh, another Holmes brother who thinks I’m on the "other side". One of you is wrong, or possibly both of you." He pointed at the barn. "I found where he went over the fence. See for yourself."

            John's hand came out of his pocket with his keys. He dropped them on the ground behind him and stepped back, covering them with his foot.

            "I'm going inside, when I come back I want you lot off my property." Major Sholto applied every sliver of command his 30 year army career had instilled in him to make his point.     "Caesar, Come!"

            He turned and walked into his house, his back ramrod straight in spite of the fact that he carried six stone of drugged Alsatian in his one functioning arm. Caesar followed his master as ordered, but never took his eyes off the men in the yard.

 

            Mycroft watched the old man with open amusement.

            "Your father-in-law is quite strong willed. I see you have a 'type'."

            John smiled dryly, aware that Mycroft was trying to bait him and refused to bite.

            "You’re mistaken Mycroft. Major Sholto was my C.O. in Afghanistan. Not my father-in-law.  Mary is an orphan. She has no other family but me, and now of course our little girl.”

            Mycroft turned a beatific smile onto John. "Congratulations. Helen is it? A nice old English name." He spoke over his shoulder to his men. "Search the grounds."

            John frowned.

            "I told you Sherlock’s not here. Why are you wasting time? You have a helicopter. Why not get back inside it and start a sweep?"

            "Because you and my brother have a history of withholding information."

            "Fine. I will look for him myself." John turned to leave.

            "John Watson, you will stay with us."

            "No. I won't Mycroft."

            "But you will."

            John took off at a sprint, through the gate and out into the yard, drawing Mycroft's men after him. For a middle aged man who hadn't run in a couple of years, he did admirably well, making it to the road and about 50 yards east before three of Mycroft's men tackled him. 

John bellowed, cursing Mycroft to the heavens.  Mycroft followed out to the yard and hissed at his men to shut him up and get him in the house.

            Molly scurried to the keys buried in the soft dirt and scooped them up. Taking a chance she stooped over and ran to the side of Sholto's Landrover, where she stayed as John was carried into the house, held by the four corners with a man at each leg and each arm. Mycroft looked grim at the chaos and hurried them into the house, where Sholto's dog was already barking in a frenzy of aggression and fear.

            The din covered the sound of Molly’s footfalls as she ran to John’s car. Thankfully they had parked far enough away to be out of ear shot when she turned the key in the ignition.  As she drove past Sholto’s house on her way to Maidstone center, she could still hear Caesar barking hysterically.

 

*******

            Sherlock had reduced his speed to a casual walk by the time he reached town proper. It appeared that pursuit would not be immediate. Either they didn’t know where he was, or they were still too far away. He needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible and hide somewhere.  Country lanes and distant cottages coalesced into row houses and city parks. Panic ebbed as the stars were obliterated by city street lights.  He began to shiver quite violently and realized that the heat from his marathon run had dissipated and left him damp with cold sweat and nothing but a thin long sleeve shirt to protect him from the nearly freezing temperature. His young self spoke aloud to him.

            " _Hypothermia_.”

            “I know that.” He growled in an answer to himself.

            “ _You need to find dry clothes_.”

            “Thank you for stating the obvious.”

            Lights from a petrol station attracted him.  An attached store was still open. He stumbled through the glass doors with his head ducked to avoid recognition from the cctv cameras positioned throughout the store.  A lone clerk was the only person inside and he was busy on his mobile phone. Sherlock hurried to the back of the store. He turned away from the camera over the beer section and flinched at his reflection in the glass door of the frozen snacks case.

            His hair was a tangled mess. At some point in the past hour he had bashed his head for a lump stood out on his forehead oozing a line of dried blood down his temple to his jaw. His shirt was stiff with a dried concoction of whiskey and bile. His nose wrinkled at the odor. His pants were still uncomfortably damp from something he didn't want to think about.

            "Where is the party?" the clerk called to him, "I get off in half an hour,"

            Sherlock blinked and then shrugged, "I can't remember, I'm not from here."

            "Oh" The clerk was clearly disappointed.

            A drinks counter had hot water and tea bags. He suddenly wanted a hot cup of tea more than anything in his life. As his tea steeped, Sherlock’s eyes fell on a rack of souvenir hooded sweatshirts for a place called Maidstone. He grabbed two; one his size and one extra-large to go over the top.  When he stepped up to the cashier to pay, he was relieved to find he had a wallet in his pants and even more relieved to find cash in it.

            "Do you have a restroom I could use?"

            The clerk nodded, handing him a key chained to a piece of drift wood.

            “It’s around the side of the building.”

            “Thanks.” Sherlock noticed the plastic encased pay-as-you-go cell phones under a locked case behind the clerk. “Can I get one of those too?”

            Sherlock was back on the streets in ten minutes. His hair was finger combed. The vomit crusted shirt was in the bottom of the restroom trash can, replaced with both hoodies.  His pants, well, they were _nearly_ dry.  He cocked his head and looked up.  More businesses were closing, and the darkening streets allowed a few of the brightest stars to show.  He needed to hide.

            The street he walked came to an end at a sluggish, brick bordered river.  It seemed familiar to him, and he pulled the front of his hoodie out and saw the same image. Ancient buildings, hundreds of years old, lined the far side of the river. Most were converted to tourist shops and river walk cafes.  Bobbing on the river, tethered to old brass cleats mortared in to the brickwork, we're scattered pleasure boats, private yachts, and canal boats decked out to carry tourists.  At this hour they rested peacefully with only the softest squeak of bumpers between hulls and stone.

            Sherlock wandered unthinking toward their enviously thoughtless energy.  A ghost of a thought bubbled up from a forgotten corner of his mind: “Perhaps I would make a better pirate than a gypsy.”

            He paused.  This must have been a thought from a previous life, maybe a childhood wish long forgotten. He frowned at his sudden whimsy. He would not survive long if he forgot himself.  Ahead he noticed a neat blue boat whose mooring placed it under the wide arch of a stone footpath that crossed the river.  _The Norseman_ was painted in fading letters on its stern.

He moved with purpose, as though he lived onboard, and without drawing any curious eye from the last few tourists weaving drunkenly back to hotel rooms, leapt down onto the deck and darted under the cover of the bridge.

            He was examining cabin windows for an entrance when he heard a latch open and a voice calling out.

            "I'm calling the cops right now."

            Sherlock didn't miss a beat. He stepped around the cabin to the door, which was opened on a chain. Pulling his wallet out, he flashed Lestrade’s old I.D.  at the half face  that looked thru the crack of the door.

            "I am the police.”

            “That doesn’t look like you.” The voice was male, older. Unimpressed with Sherlock’s I.D.

            “I’m undercover. Disguised.  Please lock your door, and if you hear any gunfire go below the water line.”

            “Gunfire?” There was a hint of amusement in the man’s voice.

            “This is a police action. We are setting a trap for an international human trafficking ring that smuggle people up the river. Please, go inside.”

            "Pull the other one. Smugglers? In Maidstone?”

            "I can't talk to you sir. Shut the door and please ignore me."

            "Eh…sure. Whatever. Don’t break anything."

            The door shut and he heard the sound of footfalls heading to the engine compartment.

            Sherlock was dead on his feet. His head hurt and his thoughts were beginning to swim.  He was probably concussed, and wished dreadfully that Doctor John Watson was there to shine a flashlight in his eyes and ask him questions. But that wasn’t to be. John was working with the enemy.  He only had one friend left.

            _“I don’t have friends, just the one.”_  It was his young self, speaking aloud again. The memory of that night triggered a gasp of emotion.  He once believed he had a friend.

            “ _What a tender world it would be_.” His young self laughed at him.

            “I do have a friend. One friend.” He belligerently answered aloud to the night. The water lapped the boat in answer.  Inside the cabin soft music played from a radio.

            Sherlock pulled his burner phone out of his pants pocket. Typing fast he sent out a message and then searched for a corner of the boat that was sheltered from the wind. A canvas sheet covered some stacked deck chairs. Sherlock wriggled under like a five year old playing fort in the kitchen, curled up tight and fell into a dead sleep.

 

*******

 

            Molly stopped for coffee and petrol at a gas station on the main road into Maidstone. The clerk was a bored 20-something lad with a sneer that reminded her of Sherlock. He was talking non-stop on his phone while he rang up Molly's purchase. As he handed her back her change she grabbed his wrist and tapped a ten pound note in his hand.

            "Let me check my e-mails and you can keep that."

            He looked at her for three seconds then promptly disconnected his call.

            "Here".

            She took the phone and browsed for her email address and logged in.

There, at the top of the inbox page was a message from an unknown number. She opened it.

"Thor Bridge" was all it said. She repeated it to herself twice then erased it.

            "Thanks." She handed it back. "Is there a river around here?"

 


	9. Chapter Nine. The Norseman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes from his flashback to find himself on a boat with no idea how he got there. Molly lends a hand that unexpectedly creates a dangerous situation for John.  
> Mycroft gets cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I last posted. To save the reader from having to go back and refresh their memories, allow me to give a "story so far".  
> John saw Anderson's video on YouTube. The one where Sherlock tells Anderson how he did it. Up until this point, John had believed that Sherlock faked his suicide to save John from a sniper. Now he knows better. Sherlock wonders why he would have subjected John to that trauma and starts to doubt his memory of the events before and after the Fall.  
> He finds that he has large gaps in his memory and begins to investigate. Soon Sherlock is suspecting that his brain has been washed and he becomes paranoid of everyone and flees London.  
> Going to Sholto's house for shelter Sherlock has another psychotic episode and suffers hallucinations that drive him to attack Sholto and run for his life. John and Molly come to find him. Unfortunately Mycroft does too.

Just before dawn, Sherlock woke to the smell of hot tea and the rattle of his own teeth as he shivered violently. He had no idea where he was. He tried to sit up and immediately smacked his head on the bent pipe of a deck chair. The canvas cover that protected the stack of chairs blocked ambient light and he was on his way to a panic attack when he realized his legs were much colder than the rest of his body. He must be under something.  
Wriggling toward the cold he made his way out from under the chairs and sat up. Water lapped against an unseen surface. Was he on the ocean? The Thames? A lump above his eye throbbed. He raised his hand cautiously to check for damages.  
Did he smell smoke?  
An ember glowed about six feet away, and a voice in the dark spoke softly.  
"It's alright mate. Just me, Micah, the ships captain. Well, Captain, owner, steward and bo'son, if we're being truthful. I got no weapons. Just a blanket if you want it, and some hot tea."

The voice inhaled on its cigarette and the ember glowed brighter; bright enough for Sherlock to see the face of an elderly man. The skin on the cheeks weather beaten where it showed from under a grey beard.  
Sherlock's teeth chattered again as another wave of shivers rolled through him.  
"Blanket." his voice croaked. He cleared his throat.  
"Yes, please, the blanket would be nice."  
"Just to your right, on the deck."  
The sailor seemed wary of Sherlock, keeping out of reach. The distance made Sherlock feel secure as well. He reached to his side and his fingers sank into wool. He gratefully pulled the blanket around him, hooding his head. The relief was instantaneous.  
"Thank you."  
"Ta"  
Sherlock looked up and saw a brick arch over head. He looked around. He was on a small boat tethered under a bridge. Dimly visible were aged historic buildings crowding the water's edge. He winced as he forced the wheels of his mind back onto some sort of track. What happened? He was leaving London, that he recalled, looking for...Sholto, yes, who lived in...  
"Am I still in Maidstone?"  
The captain took a moment to answer. Without turning to check, Sherlock knew that question had earned him a new reprisal.  
"Yes. Trying to catch human traffickers, wunnit?" the Captain spoke with mild amusement.  
"Umm." Sherlock had no idea what the man was talking about. But he let it go.  
"What time is it?"  
His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, he noticed the Captain shrugged.  
"Dark. I don't have a watch."  
Sherlock chuckled and surprised himself with the sound.  
The captain threw the cooled dregs of his tea into the river.  
"I'm getting another cup, want one?"  
"Yes. Thank you."  
Sherlock rested his head against the bulkhead and nearly dozed off when he heard his name called softly.  
He whipped the blanket off his head and listened.

"Sherlock." Female. Soft.  
"Molly?"  
Molly leaned over the edge of the foot bridge and looked down.  
"There you are." She smiled. Pleased she had sussed out his location from such a vague clue.  
Sherlock stood up.  
"Why are you here?"  
"You sent for me."  
"I..." he paused. He was wandering through territory that landed a person in the psych evaluation ward. It had happened before, but he was fuzzy on the details. Best to play along.  
"I'm glad you found me."  
Molly clambered aboard and gave him a friendly hug. Her nose wrinkled. Sherlock was mortified to realize the vaguely pissy smell was coming from him, his pants were still damp. And there was a strong smell of whiskey and a stickiness to his hair.  
"Major Sholto must have spiked my drink." he muttered as way of explanation.  
Footsteps thumped behind them. Sherlock and Molly turned to find the Captain approaching.  
"I'm afraid we don't board for at least another three hours Miss." Captain Micah informed her. Sherlock interceded.  
"This is Sandra. She is a friend of mine." Sherlock introduced her and then quickly, before Molly could say his name he continued: "And I'm Paul."  
The Captain gave them both a hard look.  
"You're friend Paul here was a little worse for wear last night."  
"Oh, that's my fault!" Molly piped up. "I mixed up the punch recipe, exchanged 2 bottles of sangria and a pint of vodka for two bottles of vodka and a pint of sangria."  
Sherlock watched her speak with an expression of wonder, before turning to the Captain Micah.  
"I was taking cold medicine too, they must have interacted."  
"He went missing and we've been searching for him all night."  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.  
"You were looking for me?"  
"Sure. Your brother, John. All of us."  
"John was searching?" He began to breath in shallow draws.  
"Of course. James called him."  
Sherlock looked past Molly to the parked car behind her.  
"Where is he now?"  
The captain cleared his throat.  
"Do you want this tea or don't ya? I'm not your bloody servant."  
Sherlock's attention split between taking the mug from the old man and waiting for Molly's answer. Captain Micah gave them the deck, mumbling about checking the shipping news as he went back into the cabin.  
"He is with your brother."  
"Well of course he is." he lifted the mug to his lips. It was hot and bitter; matching his smile. He winced at the burn he spoke softly.  
"That is John's car. Equipped with a gps car theft tracker."  
Molly twisted her mouth. "I didn't think of that."  
Sherlock nodded. Molly seemed to understand what was critical about the current situation; even if her execution was less than perfect. "Does Mycroft know _you're_ here? With John?"  
Molly shook her head 'no'. "No. I took pains."  
"Good. Drive John's car back to London. They will assume that I took it and look for me there."  
"How will you get back?"  
"Don't worry about me. I have work to do." he patted her on the small of the back, propelling her up to the dock. He leapt lightly up beside her.   
"You can stay at my house." Molly offered as Sherlock walked her back to John's car.  
"No. If I am ever to solve this, I have to stay outside London and unobserved."  
"Solve what exactly?" Molly looked directly at him. Worry creased her brow. "Who do you think...  
Sherlock leaned in and kissed her cheek.  
"Goodbye Molly. One day we will share notes on this. But now it is essential that no one knows my location. Lead them away from here with John's car. Tell no one. Even Lestrade."  
Molly blushed so hard it was noticeable even in the dark.  
"Bye, Sherlock." She unlocked the car door and got in. As she turned the key in the ignition she looked up at him, "Be careful. Mycroft has a Helicoptor and Ninjas."  
"Yes. I imagined as much."  
Sherlock watched her drive away. .

******  
"See. He jumped from that chute door. Eight feet if it's an inch." John traced a trajectory with his finger from door to fence.  
Mycroft grimaced at the flapping shirt material on the razor wire.  
"It was a near thing, that leap." John continued. "And if you had listened to me from the beginning, we could have found him by now."  
"And miss the harrowing tale of Major Sholto giving my brother alcohol poisoning?" Mycroft sneered.  
"Sherlock's reaction was a far sight more than too much whiskey. That was a flashback."  
"And you would know?"  
"Better than you, Mycroft. You just don't want to accept that your efforts to _further_ your career have caused your brother to have a breakdown."  
In the dark John heard a sharp hiss from Mycroft and suddenly found the older Holmes's nose and flashing teeth an inch from his face.  
"You know _Nothing_! You are a gormless little worm. You live in insignificant ignomy, led around by people who are your intellectual superiors. Your whole life is a lie and you're too stupid to recognize it. The fact that you are here talking to me now is simply proof that my brother is inflicted with a childish nature and that in spite of his skills, he feels compelled to keep a..."

"Pet? Is that what you were going to say?" John buzzed with an energy that had been capped for the last three years. He pressed forward, yanking his cuff back on his sleeve and shoving the dog collar wrapped around his wrist into Mycroft's face.  
"Oh believe me, I'm well aware of what I am to Sherlock. I'm _his_ pet, but he's _your_ sniffer dog, and what is pissing you off is that a lowly cur like myself has convinced a pedigree hunting dog like your brother to slip his lead and go hunting on his own."  
Mycroft angrily swatted the collar away from his face. 

"What's the matter, brother? Worried about your precious career? How will Mycroft Holmes remain as "the British Government" without his own personal secret agent taking down his enemies?"

"How dare you! I have never used Sherlock..."

"Hah! Don't even try Mycroft. You forget, I was there. Bruce Parrington. Remember that? You're security had a hole in it big enough to drive a submarine through and you had to run to Sherlock to save your fat ass!"  
Mycroft stepped back and smiled beautifically.  
"Honestly, John, you are so wrong it is laughable. Bruce Parrington was simply a way to bring Sherlock back to heel. You had turned his head so hard with your boy's school charm that my little brother couldn't see what was in front of his nose. And, as you say, he refused. He put his dog on it instead, that would be you, John, and it became apparent that I would have to find a replacement for you as an object of his fascination."  
John watched with growing unease as Mycroft relaxed, his normally mask-like face opening up as truth finally was allowed to pass through his lips. 

"What object?" John's mind was whirling.  
"Irene Adler? The Woman. Was that the object?"

Mycroft chuckled.  
"If only that had worked. I thought if there was an ounce of heterosexuality in my brother, then a crop wielding female version of himself would take his mind off of you. If only he had not overheard that unfortunate conversation between you too. Then he learned that you loved him, and of course, she had fallen for him as well. A weakness in my plan I had not foreseen, my best agent falling for her mark. It made her careless, and he was able to beat her at her own game. Really, "Sher"locked. How pedestrian." 

John was mentally back pedaling so hard it was giving him a migraine.

"You're gaping like a goldfish, John."

John snapped his mouth shut. 

"Is your tiny universe crashing down around your ears?" 

John stepped back, giving himself space. 

"You are as much an infant to me John as your little Helen is to you. And like a child you are mindlessly destuct..."

Mycroft's phone chirped and he stopped to check the screen. Frowning he answered the call. John hardly noticed. His mind stuttered through memories. Himself in his musty one and only suit like a fish out of water in Mycroft's office, desperately trying to convince the nosey git that Sherlock was hard at it, tracking down the missing submarine plans. The way Irene had made him feel like a schoolboy with her devastating wit and beauty. The way she looked at John with pity because he could not pursue Sherlock with the same natural impunity of a woman flirting with a man. That devastating moment when a bottle of wine split with Sherlock was curtailed by her sudden appearance in Sherlock's bed. His bloody _bed_ for Christ's sake! Worse, how she would laugh at his attempts to deny his crush on Sherlock. He was rather glad Sherlock referred to her as The Woman because the name Irene now had a pavlovian affect on him, creating a devastating combination of rigid self awareness and impotence. Well, now it all made sense. That was her purpose, to drive John away, or at least to steal Sherlock's affection. 

He suddenly recalled, almost as a minor note to the Irene affair, that he nearly had his head blown off by CIA agents. Or were they real agents? Was that part of the illusion? John looked up, the question on his lips to see a scowling Mycroft, his face red with anger even in the dim light of approaching dawn. 

"Right down the street from his house? Yes. No. Not necessary. I can take care of it." He ended the call abruptly, sliding the phone back inside his coat pocket. 

"Secure John Watson." Mycroft spoke to the darkness, and instantly hands wrenched his arms behind his back and he heard the snick of zip ties just before the plastic bands cut into the skin of his wrists. 

"What! What is this? Mycroft!"

"Very funny, John, one might say 'brave' even, to keep me here chatting about scraps of material in razor wire while allowing Sherlock time to drive your car back to London."

"My car? I didnt..."

"Secure him entirely, I tire of his voice."

A soft black hood descended over John's head, shutting off vision, he started to shout, but that only made it easier for Mycroft's minions to force a gag into his mouth and snap it secure to the hood. John's heart jackhammered and he started to panic as he found the hood restricted his breathing. Kicking blindly, he tried to jerk free, but instead he was shoved to the ground as his legs were shackled. 

"Interfering with a matter of national importance, John?" Mycroft's voice was soft and pleasant, belying his rage. "I should throw you in prison for treason. Let you spend the rest of your life in a dark hole somewhere. Little Helen Watson could grow up under a cloud of shame. But somehow I think you would still find a way to interfere with my brother's life. No. I think it is best for all if I simply chuck you into the middle of the English Channel. Put him on the helicopter."  
Shocked and oxygen deprived John didn't even struggle as he was picked up by the elbows and ankles and carried off. 

 

*******

Captain Micah, owner of the river boat "Norseman", took on a new mate, Paul. Paul with no last name, who admitted to being on the run from bookies and swore he was done with betting on horses.  
Micah didn't actually pay Paul. He agreed to let Paul start over by helping Micah run the boat while Micah stomped around on deck and gave tourists a cracking historical survey of the old buildings and locations of past events as they steamed past in a lazy half day trip.  
Half way through the outing Paul would show up with tea and biscuits. Sometimes the tourists would tip the lanky young man with his penetrative eyes, and Micah let him keep that for spending money. Then they would turn around and travel back. It was tedious to Sherlock, but it gave him time to recover some sense of privacy and safety. 

Micah didn't have a television onboard. Only a radio. That was fine by Paul. He had determined that this time he wouldn't be controlled by his spontaneous reactions. He could no longer blindly trust his own instincts. As he guided the boat up stream at no more than five miles an hour he systematically worked to rebuild his Mind Palace. He would cross reference data from different rooms to fill in some of the gaps in his memory. He had to acknowledge that it seemed very likely someone had gone to great trouble to scrub his mind of certain events. 

There was the Serbian Prison. Much of it was a blur, he spent a lot of time in self-induced meditative trances that he had learned from his time in Tibet. These allowed him to leave his body and soar above the scene as he was brutally tortured for information. Had there been brain washing techniques? He did not remember any directly, but there had been electrocution. Enough to cause him to black out and come to in a mess of his own bodily fluids.  
Paul's mouth twisted. The total loss of control had been mortifying. Frankly the hours long muscle cramps caused by the steel pipe whacked against his thighs was preferable.  
Tea time for the tourists broke his reverie and for once he appreciated the mundane routine of the average person's life. 

The next time Moriarty showed up on television -during a premier league match- and spoke directly to Sherlock Holmes, Paul didn't see it. The voice interrupted the radio broadcast that Micah was listening to as he tuned up the old engine on a slow Sunday evening. 

Moriarty's sing song voice still caused the hackles to rise on Sherlock's neck.  
"England will burn unless Sherlock Holmes can stop me." 

Micah growled at the prat interrupting the game.  
"What a git! England survived the Spanish Armada, what's a flea speck like him going to do?"  
Paul smiled. Micah always took the long historical view of things. He found comfort in the ancient buildings and stories that brought him his lively hood. Paul responded with an enormous french shrug and went aft for a cigarette. 

The game resumed and Paul rolled through the conversation he had with Major Sholto.  
"Only a government could control the airways of an entire nation."  
"Mycroft" Paul said aloud, then carefully ground out the cigarette and put the butt in his pocket.  
"Micah, I'm going for a walk."  
He spoke loudly into the cabin window.  
"Pick up some stout." Micah hollered back and with a smile Paul strode out to stretch his long legs.


	10. Not Anyone's Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson, alone again, decides to rent out 221b just to have living souls in the house again, but suddenly there is a mysterious thump upstairs...

Mrs. Hudson found herself with an empty house once more. 

At first the quiet was peaceful. All the tension at Sherlock's return from the grave had frankly been bad for her nerves. Oh don't misunderstand, she was thrilled to have him back, but the immediate shift into wedding mode, accompanied as it was by a heaviness of unexpressed remorse and unrequited love had been painful to watch. 

Mary Morston wasn't fooling Mrs. Hudson. Mary was a rebound relationship plain and simple. If either Sherlock had been a woman, or if John had come out of the closet, Mary would have been kicked to the curb with no more ceremony than any of John's former girlfriends. Mrs. Hudson could see that Mary knew how vulnerable her position was and that Mary was determined to keep her claws in John even though it was obvious John wanted nothing more than to return to Sherlock. 

And of course if Sherlock had been even a wee bit more sympathetic to the wrong he had done John by faking his suicide...for God's sake, if he had only dropped him a note or had Mycroft whisper in John's ear at the funeral then John would have waited patiently for Sherlock to return. 

As it stood now, no one lived at 221 Baker street (apart from herself).

She was not a young woman. She didn't have years left to repair the damages done by this latest World War between the Holmes brothers and Moriarty. And with John married...well, it was time to put out the "Rooms to Let" sign again. 

As she called her real estate agent she felt a surge of bitterness. Honestly, as much as she loved Sherlock, and of course John as well, she felt more than a little sorely used. It was like she was an old auntie only spoken to or thought of when she could be of use and ignored the rest of the time. 

True Sherlock had done her a great favor getting Mr. Hudson off her back, but that was a long time ago. She had been renting to the Holmes brothers at a discount for five years now. Rents had gone up considerably in her neighborhood, she was losing a small fortune.

To make matters worse, it felt as if she was a ghost in her own home; dusting and hoovering rooms that were never used. Mrs. Turner's "married ones" had adopted their second child now and _her_ house was a buzz of domestic activity. Small feet ran up and down the stairs, calling out to their landlady as they came home from school. Mrs. Hudson was jealous. 

"If his Majesty deigns to return one day, he can have the basement flat." she spoke to her kitchen walls as the phone rang through. 

"Westborough Realtors..." a pleasant young man answered the phone. 

"Hi. This is Mrs. Hudson. 221B..."

"Baker Street!" the man finished her sentence. "Hello Mrs. Hudson. So glad to hear from you. Are you ready to sell your building?" 

"Um, no. Not yet..."

"I have some developers looking for property in your neighborhood. They are offering top price."  
"Oh. No. I'm not..."

Suddenly there was a muffled cry and the kitchen ceiling shook with a thump from the apartment above.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the phone. She was shouting Sherlock's name before she even wrencched open the door to her flat. 

Arthritic hip or no, she ran up the steps and burst into 221B. 

 

*****

 

Dust motes swam in the air; back lit by late afternoon sun through a split in the curtains. Her eyes struggled to focus on the shadows behind the light where a form crawled on the floor. 

"Sherlock?!" She began to doubt. Something about the shape was wrong. Suddenly the person moved forward enough that the ray of light illuminated sandy grey blond hair.

"John?" 

She rushed to his side, struggling to lift him up. 

"John? What's going on? Have you moved back in? You should have said."

John Watson sat up- dazed - and looked around at his surroundings. Mrs. Hudson thought he looked as if he had been dropped off by aliens. His eyes focused on her and he gasped. 

"Mrs. Hudson. Oh. God. It's good to see you. Sorry for the fright."

With her help he stood up and straightened his rumpled clothes.

Mrs. Hudson was shocked at his appearance. He looked ashen and under weight. His eyes were shadowed in deep purple. 

"Tea?"She asked. "A sandwich?" it seemed that he needed sustenance at once to survive the next 20 minutes.

John looked around and nodded without making eye contact.

"Not here. Speedy's"

"Not my flat? It's closer?"

"Speedy's" he repeated and used her arm as both crutch and rudder to steer them both down the stairs.

Ensconced in the one corner table of the deli, soup in a cup and an egg salad sandwich laid out before him and a pot of tea with two cups between himself and his landlady, John felt safe enough to talk.

"Mycroft Holmes has Baker Street under surveillance."

"Still? I haven't seen anyone about for weeks."  
Mrs. Hudson risked a look at the curb outside.

"Not outside. Inside." 

"Inside?"

"Cameras, bugs. Spy stuff."

"How dare he? And after I gave him a discount all these years."

John nodded. 

"I know. I only learned of it recently."

"So were you taking them down? Is that why you were up there." She put her hand over her mouth. "He hasn't put cameras in my flat has he?"

"I wouldn't put it past him. But no I wasn't taking them down. If Sherlock couldn't find them, I'm not sure I could do any better."

"Then why were you upstairs? Have you and Mary had a row?"

"Nothing like that."

Mrs. Hudson tried to hide her disappointment.

"Oh. Did you come back to find something?"

"Yes. Sleep." John chuckled and ducked his head. 

"The baby keeping you up?" Mrs. Hudson nodded wisely. 

"We're keeping each other up. When I'm sleeping she wakes me up for feedings, when she sleeps I wake her up with my nightmares."

Mrs. Hudson patted John's arm.

"Sherlock." she said knowingly.

"Not anymore." John shook his head in barely contained anger. 

"Not still "the war" then?" she cocked an eyebrow.

"No..." John pinched his bottom lip.

"Something new then?" she asked. 

*****

The Helicoptor had shot up and forward at a sickening speed. John braced himself against a bulkhead and bit down on the gag to steady himself. The hood sucked against his nostrils with every inhalation, his pulse pounded in his ears, muffling the voices around him.

"...due south, south-west..."

"Keep at an elevation under 1k..."

"John..."

John's brain was refusing to accept what was happening, yet his senses were screaming at him to do something. He struggled to control his breath, force his breath out through his mouth, around the gag, slow his inhalation so the hood would not pull tight to his face. 

"John... John Watson...Doctor?"

Mycroft was speaking directly into his ear, loud enough to be heard over the roar of rotors and motor. 

"It is critical that you listen to me. Are you hearing me?"

John nodded his head. 

"Good. There is nothing personal in this. I think you're a nice enough fellow, all the killing aside, but I love my brother more, so it comes to this."

John tried to shout through his gag, plead for his innocence, but Mycroft settled a hand on his knee and squeezed.

"Save your strength Doctor. Now. You have a choice to make. There is a constant current running in the Channel, west to east. If you sink and drown immediately, your body will be simply pulled to the North Sea and never found. That would be the easiest on all of us, Sherlock included, he need never know what became of you."

"Nnnn Nnnn nnnnn nnnnn!" John protested, shaking his head.

"John! Doctor Watson! Listen to me. There is another course of action."

John stilled himself. He strained to hear over the noise.

"Approaching drop zone... two minutes."

"John. We are going ten miles out, that means France is 16 miles away, six miles further, so if you choose to swim for it, I recommend swimming north. The current moves at a near steady rate of 7 knots. West to East. You will need to let it move you left to right to determine north. Then, if you swim like the very devil, you might just make landfall before the current pulls you past Dover. Of course that depends on your skills as a swimmer. I do hope you learned at some point."

"30 seconds to drop, Sir."

"Bring her down to 50 feet, I don't want the fall to kill him."

The helicopter began to slow and John's stomach pitched as the craft plunged quickly down.

"Unshackle his feet. Stand up John."

His breath became harsh and labored inspite of himself. Hands held him up by each arm. The floor beneath his feet yawled and slanted as the helicopter struggled to maintain its position. 

"Take this. Don't drop it. It's a pocket knife. You can use it to cut your restraints. I recommend you go in as straight as you can. You don't want the wind knocked out of you. I would concentrate first on cutting the zip tie, then removing the hood. Then get to the surface as fast as you can for a breath. Don't try to breath through the wet hood, I believe the term 'waterboarding' is the effect it would have. Most unsettling."

The sound of metal sliding came from behind him, and suddenly the inside of the helicopter was a riot of wind. Mycroft was now shouting at full throat to be heard. 

"For God's sake don't scream on the way down. Save your breath. Ready John? Deep breath and..."

Suddenly he was shoved forcefully in the stomach while the men at each arm tossed him out the door. 

****

John grimaced. He couldn't meet Mrs. Hudson's eyes. Even now his heart hammered in remembered fear.

****

True to his soldier's training, he had not screamed. He held his breath for the entire drop, all of 12 feet until his shoes hit solid earth and he finished unceremoniously by landing on his ass in soft grass. 

Over his head he heard the Helicoptor whine as it lifted off, taking bloody-fucking-so-very-dead -if-I-ever-see-him-again-Mycroft with it.  
John lay there for several seconds as his mind tried to synchronize what it had expected to happen with the reality of being a 42 year old man trussed up and hooded in the middle of a rugby pitch.  
His hands were still tied behind his back and the knife still clenched in his fist. He struggled to his knees and opened the knife. He cut the zip tie and yanked the hood off his head.  
Dizzy, John sucked air in in deep long breaths. His phone pinged in his coat pocket. He knew what the text would say before he opened it. 

"Leave my brother alone. M"

****

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, something new." John said grimly. 

She patted the back of his hand again. 

"Lord knows enough things have happened to cause you any number of bad dreams. You come by and sleep anytime you want dear, maybe stop in for tea if you like. I wouldn't say no to the company. Bring little Helen if you need a sitter, I can watch her for a bit while you have a kip upstairs."

Mrs. Hudson resolved to call her real estate agent and double the rent on Mycroft. No need to bring in new tenants just yet.


	11. Sandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock won't respond to Moriarty's continued threats. He can no longer rely on his superior intelligence because he can't verify what is true. Unable to trust John or Mycroft, Sherlock is adrift in a world where anyone could be an enemy, especially those who seek your friendship.

  * Sandy



Summer came and went. Moriarty made three more appearances on the telly. Each promised mayhem if Sherlock Holmes didn't stop him. Each time Sherlock remained in hiding.

Bombs were connected to every threat. The first target, a busy commuter train, was held up by a medical emergency ( an old man's heart gave out) and so the explosives planted under the lead car destroyed an evacuated train. Instead of hundreds maimed and killed there was just the inconvenience of a tunnel closed for a week. The second target was a packed soccer game. But the backpack of C4 was found in a bathroom stall by a janitor, and was disposed of before it detonated. The last attack was a passenger plane, which exploded in mid air on a flight over the North Sea. All souls were lost. 

The British subjects were rocked. Newspapers, television anchors and Social Media sites called for the government to demand Sherlock's return. There were some talking heads speculating that Sherlock was simply too afraid to take on Moriarty again. There were even whispers that Sherlock had died on board the bombed passenger jet. 

Sherlock was determined not to be lead around by the nose again by Moriarty's games. It was difficult. With every attack Sherlock felt the trumpet call of "the hunt", but he was no longer sure who his enemy was. 

Moriarty had shot himself, right before his eyes. Blood pooled on the roof beneath his head.  
     Yet Sherlock himself had pulled off an even greater feat of suicide.

Sherlock dimly recalled the last thing Sholto told him before he woke up on the Norseman: "It would take a government to gain access to all the satellites."

     Could Moriarty have agents in place, under Mycroft's nose, over riding satellite feeds for an entire nation?

Mycroft had held Moriarty in his secret  prison...and then let him out. His brother had fed his arch enemy information, private information, about him. And then let him go.

Why had he done that? 

Oh. To flush Moriarty out, to make him come after Sherlock, to show his hand while showing off. 

Then why did Sherlock recall so vividly the sense of _betrayal_ at Kitty's apartment? As Moriarty tried to convince John that he was an actor, Richard Brooks, there had been doubt and paralysis in Sherlock's mind. Not that Moriarty was an actor, but that maybe Moriarty wasn't who he claimed to be at all. 

And there was John. His best friend or Mycroft's greatest creation. It physically hurt to think about this. 

  


John had been livid with the Lazarus video filmed at Anderson's. If John worked for Mycroft then he would have been part of Lazarus. Sherlock had thought they were fooling John, but was Sherlock actually the butt of that joke?

These questions always resulted in a wave of nausea so strong that he was forced to stop thinking about them. Indeed, twice he had raced for the railing and heaved up dinner into the river.

  
"Still don't have your sea legs yet, Paul?" Captain Micah would note from what ever corner of the boat he was on.

  
"Guess not." Sherlock would smile weakly.

Many times he would catch the random glance of a stranger - sometimes one of the tourists on board, other times someone sitting at a riverside cafe watching the Norseman as it chugged  past  - and he would tremble with barely contained panic.

  
'They've found me!'

  
His breath would flutter ineffectively in his chest and he would have to steady himself against the bulkhead to keep from sliding to a crouch and gibbering.

  
But then the person at the cafe would call out "Bon voyage!" to the tourists on board, who would wave back and laugh. Or the tourist would say "How long until tea?" and he could breath again.

  
Hiding in plain sight was nerve racking, certainly, but establishing himself with a clear separate identity was in many ways the best way to hide. Especially in a service role as he worked now. Just as he had stood inches from John with a fake mustache and a bow tie, invisible as a waiter, now he was the tall lanky ships's mate who rolled around a tea trolly and sometimes would endear the white haired old ladies to himself by deducing how many dogs or cats they had and what their names were. 

  
At night the Norseman docked under the stone bridge  and Sherlock would avoid the satellite tracking by keeping the two hundred year old bridge between himself and the heavens.

  
"You won't be able to sleep out on the deck come winter." Micah grumbled as the summer turned to autumn.

  
"I don't like the smell of deisel." Paul would explain, and curl up to sleep in his sleeping bag.

Mondays were a day off.

Micah and Paul would drive the boat to the dockside fueling port and fill the tanks. Then a group of four other pilots would assemble for a weekly game of poker, whiskey, and inside jokes. Paul would take this time to walk into town, to a cafe with free wifi.

  
Routine, he discovered, is an excellent disguise.  He would slouch, round his back and walk with his long legs way out in front like a crane. With his short hair and a Norseman Tours pilot hat cocked on his head, he could have walked right past his own brother and not been recognized.

Which is not to say he did not attract attention. Many young ladies would catch his eye, then cut their glance away with a giggle. And nearly as many men would stare frankly at him, looking high to low and back up and then adjusting themselves.  
Such notice made him apprehensive and exhilarated at the same time.  
Then he would see a shock of grey blond hair and stop in his tracks. But it was never John. And if it had been, would he have run away and hid or would he have sidled up to him and said something rumbling and pithy that only John could hear?  
This thought troubled him the most, and he often tried to work out the answer at night on the rocking deck of the Norseman while his hand would stray down his body to find his cock as querilous as his mind, needing light strokes of his fingers to coax an answer from it, and the answer was always the same as he came into a greasy shop rag with a soft cry:  
"John"

Sherlock stopped in front of the wifi cafe. His mind buzzing from thoughts of last night and his somnambulistic use of John's mouth to answer his question: "Did you help Mycroft spy on me? Did you? Tell me..." For answer John had kissed him, hard, deeply, then had slid to his knees and taken Sherlock in his mouth.  
Sherlock's knees threatened to buckle and he quickly went inside the cafe to find a seat.

  
"Paul!"

  
Pauline, a school girl who worked part time at the cafe called to Sherlock and waved him over, beaming. Pauline had a crush on Paul, and took it as a good sign that their names were similar. But Paul didn't have to worry, Pauline's first love was a singer in a boy band. He opened his face up, like "normal" people and smiled, lips parted, teeth showing.

  
"Pauline. How are you?"

  
"Look!"  
She pulled up a shiney new tablet from under the counter.  
"My grandmother bought it for me. You know what that means?"

  
Sherlock scowled.  
"Did I miss your birthday?"

  
"No. Oh no. She got me this for good grades. No that means I don't need my laptop anymore. So you can have it."

  
She set a battered Toshiba on the counter. It was the same one she loaned to Paul every Monday. She knew he lived on tips and couldn't afford a computer of his own. It was five years old and ran an outdated operating system. Its battery held a charge for 20 minutes if he was lucky. It was covered in stickers of boys bands and Sherlock knew half the memory was filled with fanfic of her favorite ship.

  
"How much do you want for it?"

  
"Nothing, Silly! It's a gift. Free."  
She set a mug of hot water down in front of him and a tea bag.

  
"You don't want to keep it?" Sherlock was genuinely touched.

  
"Nah, I've got the new best thing."

  
"New best thing? You two must be talking about me."

  
Sherlock's neck stiffened as a familiar shape climbed on to the stool next to him. From the corner of his eye, he saw short stature, blond hair, ratty jumper.  
"How did you find..." He stopped speaking as he turned. Not John. Could have been John 20 years ago, but this man's hair was only blond, no grey at the temple. His smile was genial and infectious, but there were no crows feet around his brown eyes.

  
"I followed you." the man's smile started to fade from his face. "You don't know who I am...oh...this is embarrassing."

"Ummm, you want a coffee? Or tea?" Pauline broke in bruskly, a little put out at the interruption of her chat with Paul.

  
"Oh, sure. Thanks, coffee, black, and an orange scone." The stranger seemed grateful for the distraction.

"Have we met?" Sherlock asked.

  
"Only every Monday at the petrol station."

  
"You refuel the boats." Sherlock surmised.

  
"Yeaah. I have never yet refueled the Norseman. I've always been busy with other customers, but I've seen you come in, and then your captain plays cards with my boss for the rest of the day."

  
Sherlock studied the young man.  
"Why did you follow me?"

  
The man flushed pink.  
"I just wanted to say hello."

  
Sherlock tipped his head to one side. The stranger blushed even more.  
"Hello" Sherlock said.

  
"Hello." the man smiled. "I'm Sandy."

  
"I'm Paul..."

  
"Paul Sheffield." Sandy finished his name with a  grin.

  
"What do you want, Sandy?" Sherlock fought against the reflexive archness that belied the down and out deck hand Paul, but some of it crept into his voice.

Sandy physically leaned back.  
"I... well, nothing, specifically, I just... it's nothing."

  
Sherlock frowned, and waited as Sandy struggled.

  
"Look, it's just that I thought you might be 'one of us'." he finished flatly, looking once at Sherlock directly in the eyes before cutting away.

  
Sherlock sorted through a short list of what 'one of us' could be. Was it connected to the satellite people? Had they found him after all? He fought down a moment of terror but not until he was already standing, twitching to run.

  
"What do you mean?" His brain was starting to spark and fizzle most disappointingly just when he needed it to function properly.

  
"You know..." Sandy swiveled on his stool and waved a hand up and down to indicate Sherlock's body. "Look at your hair. Your cheekbones. Your whole...you."

  
This brought back a scrap of conversation fluttering through on the wind blowing around in his head. 'The collar turned up, the cheekbones, trying to be cool'

  
"Do you mean 'gay'?" Sherlock asked.

  
Sandy flinched and his eyes flicked around the room.  
"Well, no. That wasn't what I was...that wasn't it."

  
"Then what?" Sherlock leaned into Sandy's personal space, using his height to force an answer.

  
"Whoa, look, no harm meant." Sandy dropped his voice to a whisper. "I thought you were a fellow traveler."

  
Sherlock leaned back. Traveler. Meant what? At one time Communists were called travelers, but they didn't have a 'look'. What else, name of General Robert E. Lee's horse. Why did he know that? What else...?

  
"Romany? Is that what you meant?"  
The words were out of his mouth before he had finished his thought.

  
"Yeah." Sandy smiled, relieved.

  
"Oh." Sherlock caught sight of himself in the reflection of a mirror behind the counter. Tall, dark, high cheekbones. He could see it. A hoop in his ear lobe, open throated shirt with gold necklace, a sash instead of a scarf. Very like a pirate, he thrummed with momentary excitement.  
Then he caught his own eyes.

  
"My eyes are the wrong color, shouldn't they be brown?"

"Is that all? Look at me mate. My mother decided to marry a viking from Norway and now look, blond hair, I stand out like a sore thumb. My own people give me the side eye."

  
"It is hard to picture you as a Gypsy."

  
"Please, not that word, eh?"

  
Sherlock sat back down. Pauline dropped off Sandy's order.

  
"Thank you, Pauline." Sherlock unloaded a soft and charming smile on the girl. She tipped her head and pointedly spoke to Sherlock, ignoring Sandy.

  
"You're welcome, Paul."

  
"Yes, ta." Sandy added.

  
"Hmmm." She stiffly turned away. Sandy grinned.

"Seems I've stepped on someone's sore toe." he spoke softly to Sherlock.

  
Sherlock sipped his tea and tried to organize his thinking into that of Paul Sheffield's, but this small John-like man was triggering so many Sherlock reactions he felt helpless and confused.

  
"So, then, Sandy, is this what Gyp...forgive me, Romany do? Follow each other around?"

  
"Well, not as a rule..."

  
"I see, then is it that you need something? I don't have much money."

  
"No! Nothing like that."

  
"Is it...is it that...are you trying to date me?"

  
It came out terribly awkward and both Sandy and Sherlock blushed.

  
"Um, it's, well, yes and no." Sandy toyed with his scone.

  
"I see. No. I don't. Do I?" Sandy's resemblance to John caused Sherlock to expect him to fill in the blanks.

  
"See, it's complicated. Look." Sandy pulled out his smart phone and swiped through some pictures until he found what he wanted.  
"This, see, this is Ben." Sandy tilted the phone for Sherlock to see.

  
It was very close to looking in a mirror. The picture was a close up of a man, dramatically dark and purhaps handsome in a way. The man had curly hair, sharp cheekbones and a sensous mouth twisted into a wry smile. His skin tone was a bit darker and his eyes were nearly black, but Sherlock could see how Sandy might have thought he and Ben were the same.

  
"You thought I Was Ben. From a distance."

  
"No." Sandy shook his head. "You just reminded me of him, and see, well my mother wants me to visit."

  
"I don't follow."

  
"Would you come home with me?"

  
"Yes."

  
Sherlock wasn't sure why he said yes. It was the mystery of the unknown he supposed, or that somehow he was compelled to trust this man based soley on his resemblance to John.

  
"Remarkable." Sandy shook his head with a quiet laugh.

  
"What?"

  
"Ben would have done the same thing, just say "Why not? Let's go." You're so much like him."

  
"Mmm. Well they say we all have a twin somewhere." Sherlock had heard that remark once on a bloody awful movie John had made him watch.

  
"Do they? I haven't met mine yet." Sandy grimaced.

  
"I'm sure he's out there. Where are we going?"

  
"Scotland."

  
"I will need to get some warm clothes. We can stop in London."

 

Sandy's drove an old truck he had bought off the station master. Nothing on the vehicle was power, including the steering. It bucked and rattled and the road noise was so loud they had to shout to be heard.

This cut down on small talk, which was fine with Sherlock, but Sandy kept sneaking looks at him until Sherlock had to ask.

  
"You have questions?"

  
"You're that guy. In the safety propaganda."

  
"What are you on about?"

  
"On TV. The guy who rescues the little fellow from the Guy Fawkes bonfire."

"I don't have a TV, I have no idea what you're talking about." Sherlock tried to hide his profile by looking out the window. 

  
"Well, it's an advertisement, actual footage of a bonfire and this tall dark bloke rushing in and shoving all the burning planks away and pulling out this passed out drunk little fellow."

  
Sherlock was caught off guard.  
"Why are they showing that?"

  
"Cause it's November 3rd."

  
"And?"

  
"And... Guy Fawkes. Remember Remember the Fifth of November?  They say to 'Check the stack before you light the match.'"

  
Sherlock felt sick.

  
"So, it was you, wasn't it?" Sandy arched an eyebrow.

  
"Maybe it was your friend Ben." Sherlock tried to get surly enough for Sandy to leave off.

  
"You have a burn scar on your right wrist, where the flames snuck around your gloves." Sandy observed.

  
Sherlock dropped his hand between his thighs.  
"Wasn't me."

  
"What I want to know, who was the useless cow that stood there screaming?"

  
"His wife." Sherlock answered, and his lip twitched as he saw the smile flash across Sandy's face.

  
"I knew it." Sandy laughed. "But what the hell was he thinking? How drunk was he to try and sleep it off in a bonfire?"

  
"It was a set-up" Sherlock looked at Sandy. "An elaborate prank on me. Everyone was in on it, even the camera man."

  
"Not his wife though."

  
"Wife most of all."

  
"Huh. That's some joke." Sandy shook his head. "You must have been pissed."

  
"Mmmm" Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

Sandy looked straight ahead and gripped the steering wheel tight.  
"Sound's like something my-, Ben's wife would have done."

  
"Lit him on fire?"

  
"Anything she had to do to break us up, as mates, you know. Anything. Even if it hurt Ben too. She was that jealous of us, of our friendship. She said it was why Ben wouldn't propose to her, cause I was always taking him away."

"You can't have three people dance." Sherlock muttered. 

"She went so far as to tell everyone that me and Ben were having it off with each other. It caused such a scandal, I was pushed out of my own community."

  
Sherlock felt the stirrings of empathy. He tried to imagine what John would say.

  
"Oh."

Probably John would have said something more sympathetic, but it was enough for Sandy. He went on:

"Ben didn't even try to stop me. That day, when I packed my bag, he watched me walk away."

  
Sherlock remembered the handshake on the tarmac, before he was due to fly away for good.  
'The games over.' John had said. Just ready to let everything go, like the past years had been meaningless.

  
"So, you know, it's been two years since I left and my mother, she's been sending me letters, 'Come home Sandy. We miss you. Come and see Ben's new baby.'"

  
Sherlock scoffed at the mention of a baby.

  
"He's got two now. And he's not asking me to come back, just my mom. But see, a big handsome fellow like you, well, If we came riding in together people wouldn't feel sorry for me. Ben could see that I don't need him. I can do alright by myself. "

  
"Are you asking me to be in a relationship?" Sherlock sifted through the emotional tangle of Sandy's words

.  
"Well, yes, no. Not so much a relationship, you know, but a really close friendship."

  
"Maybe a friendship that was as close as you and Ben?"

  
Sandy nodded, blushing. 

  
"I will do it on one condition."

  
"Name it, anything." Sandy said stridently.

  
"Kiss me."


	12. The New John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After eight months away, Sherlock decides to stir the pot and see what floats to the top.

The New John 

John was in the middle of a diaper change when Mycroft called him. 

At first he thought his ears were playing tricks on him. His cell phone was tucked in his pants pocket, muffled, so the theme of Jaws - a ring tone he had assigned Mycroft shortly after their first meeting- might or might not be rumbling up from his groin. Considering that Mycroft and he had not crossed path in word or deed since the night of the helicopter ride eight months ago, John decided it must be someone else calling. He let the phone go to message as he smeared zinc oxide on Helen's diaper rash and then taped on a fresh diaper. Helen kicked her heels happily and John kissed her round tummy before pulling her night shirt down. 

Mary called from the living room.  
"Text from the Queen. 'Tell John to pick up his phone.'"

John straightened up slowly. Mary didn't know about John's last encounter with Mycroft. Having your nerves frayed to a snapping point was not something to share with the woman you were supposed to protect and provide for. Now the very notion of Mycroft intruding into his home - even as words on his wife's mobile phone - filled him with remembered rage and terror. He steadied himself by grabbing the rail of Helen's crib.

"John?" Mary called. 

"Tell the old ponce I'm not speaking to him while that bloody "bonfire PSA" is on telly." John struggled to keep his tone light and crisp, as he and Mary did when speaking of Mycroft. 

There was no answer, so he knew Mary was texting Mycroft. Looking down between his white knuckled grip on her crib, John saw Helen looking up with a tiny frown and it was like looking in a mirror. She had his doctor's empathy, even when she couldn't understand the language. His bright love for his daughter blurred his focus on Mycroft. 

"Who's Daddy's big girl?" John smiled at her and bent down to kiss the frown from her forehead.  
Helen cooed and yawned. John covered her with a light blanket and turned on the mobile hanging over her crib. Dancing bears waltzed to the song "Catch A Falling Star". Helen's eyes flitted from John's face to the bears and back again before finally the bears won out. John backed away and pulled the door almost closed before walking back into the sitting room. 

 

"What did Mycroft want?" John asked, then stopped as he saw his wife looking at a video file on his laptop. From across the room it looked for all the world like he and Sherlock snogging against the sitting room wall of 221B.

"What the hell?" he stumbled across the room. Mary turned and studied him. 

"Have you been seeing Sherlock?" She asked?

"No! No. I don't know where he is..."  
His cell phone made the 'Dunh Dunh. Dunh Dunh Dunh Dunh Dunh Dunh Duhn Duhn Dunnnnn" sound. This time he snatched the phone from his pocket. 

"Mycroft? What is this? Some kind of joke?" John's voice shook with emotion. "I thought you made it clear we were to leave each other alone." 

He bent low to inspect the screen. It was Sherlock he would swear to it. When Sherlock broke away from the kiss and stepped back he could see the moles on his neck, and the way his right eye was almost imperceptibly more almond shaped than the left. The man in the oatmeal jumper had his back to the camera and a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. No one really knows what they look like to others, but this man had sandy blonde hair, was shoulder high to Sherlock and...

"That's my jumper!" John pointed at the screen. "Harry gave me that jumper my first christmas after the war. Its been missing for years!" 

"There couldn't be two that hideous color, so he must have found it for you." Mycroft's voice was the cruel purr of a cat with a mouse in his jaws. 

John flinched. He had forgotten in the shock of the scene playing out before him that Mycroft was on the phone. 

"He found it for someone. Bastard. He said he hated that jumper..."  
John's words stuck in his throat as the man in the ball cap dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. 

"What...?" It was Sherlock's voice coming from the video feed and any lingering doubt was erased. John swallowed hard against a peculiar flooding of saliva in his mouth. He was aware of Mary's eyes turned up to watch him watch the screen, but he couldn't look away. 

"Stop...you don't have to...unh"  
Sherlock was giving in, succumbing to the stranger's mouth around his cock. There was a roaring crowd in John's head and his breath was fast and shallow. It was a nightmare. Suddenly John wished he was actually being tossed into the English Channel. He needed cool isolation to even start to process the sensations flooding his body. Over all the cacophony in his brain was a high wailing voice, his own, screaming "He's mine!". He leaned over Mary's shoulder to shut the laptop, but she pulled it away. 

"You don't think that's me? Do you?" 

Mary looked at John carefully.  
"If you say it's not you then I believe you."

Mycroft spoke into John's ear.  
"Come on Dr. Watson, I think having been caught inflagranto on camera, you can dispense with the lies. We know you have been visiting Baker Street several times a week. Now, as you have not held up your end I am invading your home. Tell me where my brother is, now."

On the screen Sherlock was leaning against the wall, his legs splayed like a colt, his head tipped back, mouth slack. John was fire and ice.  
MineMineMine

"It's not me, Mr. Holmes." He shut his eyes against the image and focused on Mycroft's voice. "I have been having tea with Mrs. Hudson."

"And a kip on the couch?" Mycroft's voice went colloquial in an imitation of John. "Not sleeping well At home?"

"I'm here Mycroft, at home. Changing nappies. Why aren't you at Baker Street if Sherlock's back?"

"He's not there." Mycroft growled. 

The picture on the screen jumped to an outdoors shot, rooftop level. Sherlock walked straight to the camera and turned it up to the sky. The laptop screen was filled with stars. 

"He left by the roof just as my men were coming in the front door." Mycroft explained sourly.

Another jump in the picture and there was a shot from a lamp post across the street capturing Sherlock dropping the last ten feet from a fire escape ladder. The sandy haired man in John's oatmeal jumper hung from the last rung before dropping into Sherlock's waiting arms. Sherlock helped slow the drop and then bent over the smaller man as they scurried away down the alley. 

"Well that proves it's not me. I haven't been able to hang like that from my arm since the war. That's a younger man."

"Ah, I see what you mean." Mycroft sneered. "He has indeed gone for a younger version of you. How sad for you both."

"You poisonous harpy." John's voice grew frosty. "This is exactly why you can't find your brother. It's your monstrous nature, Mycroft. He can't stand to be near you."

"Apparently he can't stand to be near either of us." Mycroft's cruel smile could be heard over the phone and before John could remember that the phone in his hand cost £275 to replace he threw it side armed across the room where it bounced off the brick of the fireplace. The phone went thankfully silent; the screen black. Mary quickly shut the laptop and moved it out of his reach before he could throw that as well. 

"Oh, god! I'm sorry." he was apologizing immediately to his startled spouse. 

"It's fine John. He gets to everyone."

John's fists were balled up and his jaw danced. Mary cleared her throat.

"Maybe a walk? Hmm? Down to the corner, get a pint?" 

She reached across the sofa, handing him his leather coat. He took it from her and strode from the house before he even bothered to put it on. She watched him quick march down the sidewalk before she opened up the laptop and spoke aloud. 

"What the bloody hell are you playing at?"

The view on the other end shifted from the fire escape to a sweep of Mycroft's office and then Mycroft himself. He smiled mirthlessly.

"I'm just shaking the bushes, seeing what will come running out."

"You didn't really think that was John in the video feed?"

"I did for a moment and so did you. My brother is going to some lengths to play a game with me and I have no idea what his goal is."

"Where the hell did he find a jumper exactly the same awful colour." Mary wondered.

"Isn't it obvious? He has kept it all these years, probably slept with it under his pillow. He's your problem too Mary. Do what you can to find out where he is."

And with that, Mycroft's screen went black. 

"Goodbye to you too, wanker." Mary sputtered and then shut the laptop. 

*******

Mrs. Hudson returned to Baker street in style. A trip with Mrs. Turner to an off track betting shop had resulted in a windfall. A horse that shared her niece's name had come in at long odds. Dinner for two at a nice resteraunt with cloth napkins had been Mrs. Hudson's treat, as was the movie after and the cab ride home. Mrs. Turner was the first to be let off, and now Mrs. Hudson was fighting back a yawn as she let herself in the outside door.

Her tiredness evaporated like water on a hot griddle as she stepped through the outer door. The door to her flat stood open and worse, she could hear movement from inside. 

Panicked, she backed out onto the front stoop and rummaged through her purse for the small mobile phone with the big numbers that Sherlock had given her before his leap off Bart's. It had several phone numbers on speed dial, the first of which was Mycroft's. Sherlock had told her that Mycroft usually had a man or two watching the flat anyway, so he could get help to her faster. 

She pressed the 1 button and waited, nervously peeking into the foyer every few seconds.

"Mrs. Hudson?" A voice called from inside her flat and she quickly pressed the end call button on her phone. She recognized John Watson's voice even coming muffled through two doors. 

"What brings you by so late, Dear? And how did you get into my flat?"

She stepped inside and shut and locked the outside door. John stood smiling at her in her own doorway. He was worried, of course, to be breaking into her flat he must have something on his mind.

"What's happened John? You never come by this late...or invite yourself in to my flat. Shall I put on the kettle?" She gave him a warm kiss on the cheek and patted his arm.

"It's already on. Just poured myself a cup, here, let me, do you need a drop of your herbal soother?"  
John held up a small brown bottle with liquid in it.  
"I found it while I was looking for tea."

Mrs. Hudson huffed.  
"It's perfectly medicinal." 

"Oh, I agree. I put a spot in my tea already."

"John Watson!" She laughed, "Alright then, yes, two drops and then explain to me why I have the pleasure of your company so late at night."

Once seated and comfortable with their hot herbal tea, John jumped in.  
"So, Sherlock is back."

Mrs. Hudson nearly spilled her tea.  
"He is?" She shoved her chair back from the table and started to rise. 

"No, Mrs. Hudson. I meant he came back to pick up some things, and left. Mycroft caught him on his spy camera. "

"When was this? I dusted yesterday. I didn't notice a thing."

"Today I think. So you didn't see anything?"

"I was out all day with Mrs. Turner."  
She smiled. "I knew he couldn't stay away. I should wash the windows tomorrow, maybe run the vacuum. "

"He had someone with him. A man about my height and build."

"Oh, I'm sorry John, but I suppose he had to move on, after all, _you_ married someone else."

"Well, yeah, I guess." John was grateful for the herbal soother. In this case it worked better than a drink to negate the sharp sense of betrayal when he thought of Sherlock with his younger dopleganger. 

"So, why are you here, dear?" she spoke gently, afraid to prick John's funny pride. 

"Uhm. I'm going up to look around, see if I can find some clue to where he's gone. I need to find him. Clear up some things. We left on bad terms."

"Well yes, you married someone else. Can't get on much worse terms than that." She drained her cup and then refilled her own cup and topped off John's. 

John winced. "Mrs. Hudson, if you thought I was making a mistake, you know, marrying Mary, why didn't you try to stop me?" 

Mrs. Hudson for once didn't have a glib answer. She ran a crooked finger over her lightly powdered cheek. " I suppose, John, I thought it was the only way that you two could move forward." 

"Me and Mary?"

"No. You and Sherlock. If you two didn't run to the opposite ends of the Earth from each other, then you were never going to face the fact that you couldn't live without each other." 

John was staggered by her answer. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. He smiled sadly and sipped his tea. 

"Unfortunately he got the idea that I was working against him. That Mycroft and I..." John stopped cold. 

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes?"

"You've known Sherlock for a long time, am I right?"

"Oh. Yes. I suppose. I think he was 28 when I hired him to help me with my Florida problem. But he could have been older, he has such a youthful face."

"Was he the same back then?" John toyed with the bottle of soothers, then put them down.

"The same how, love?" Mrs. Hudson twisted the lid off the bottle and dripped two more drops into John's cup and then three into her own. 

"Suspicious, paranoid." John stirred his drink. 

"Well, I would say not. He was a reckless boy, but he was sure he could outsmart anyone who tried to stop him." 

"Oh."

"When he first moved in here he said it was to get away from his brother. He seemed happy, but a little lonely. Of course Mycroft Holmes was angry that he moved away from him and refused to help with the rent."

"That's where I came in."

"It is. Oh, he was so happy to have someone to show off for. I think you really helped him to come out of his shell." Mrs. Hudson took John's hand and held it in both of hers. "Won't you find him, John?"

"Of course. I will. I will Mrs. Hudson."

 

******

John left Mrs. Hudson to get to sleep while he searched for clues upstairs.  
The first glaring clue was that the door had been kicked open, no doubt by Mycroft's men. Add another sin for Mycroft to atone for.

John pushed into the sitting room, his eyes drawn immediately to the wall that Sherlock had been pinned against. The smiling face leered at him in yellow, the skull frowned at his idiocy. They knew everything, didn't they? Witnesses to all that had taken place in this room. They knew his pining glances at Sherlock's back when he left the room, they watched him squirm when Irene was here, nodded approval when he punched the Chief Inspector. They knew he had fallen for Sherlock before he did. 

John walked slowly to the spot Sherlock had stood, peering down for evidence of what had transpired earlier. Thankfully there was nothing in form or scent. He relaxed. A tour through the kitchen revealed nothing. Not an empty tea cup or glass. He popped the top on the trash to reveal a fresh trash can liner and a single empty beer can. 

"Helped yourself to my beer, did you?" he grumbled. 

Walking back into the sitting room he calculated where the camera had to be to capture Sherlock and the other John and waved cheekily to Mycroft's minions.   


Sherlock's bedroom was neat as a pin. Clutter was kept to the common areas obviously. John was relieved that the bedspread was still pulled tight and tucked in. The sexual escapades had not moved into this room. He pulled out a few dresser drawers looking for anything out of the ordinary, at least out of the ordinary for Sherlock, he thought as pulled a snake's skin out of the sock drawer. 

"You hoo, John?"  
Mrs. Hudson called from the front door. "Oh! Who broke my door?!"

"In here Mrs. Hudson." John called back. "Mycroft's men, I think."

"Bloody Mycroft! I'm going to call the law on you Mycroft Holmes."

"Who are you...?" John poked his head out of the bedroom doorway to see Mrs. Hudson speaking into her cell phone. She was dressed in her night clothes and dressing gown. 

"You better had. First thing this morning. Here's John...he wants to speak to you dear, something wrong with your phone?"

"Forgot it at home." John took her mobile, "Not speaking to you, Mycroft, go to Hell." 

John disconnected the call and handed the phone back to her.

"Here you go Mrs. Hudson. Sorry for the late night commotion." 

"That's alright, John. Its a bit like old times. Whenever Sherlock turns up. I've missed it." She turned to go when her mobile rang in her hand again.

"You better answer it, dear." She handed the phone back to John. "Just drop it off on my kitchen table when you're finished. Good night John. Find Sherlock for me."

"I will Mrs. H. Sleep tight."  
He waited until she left before answering the ringing phone.  
"What?"

"Back to the scene of the crime, eh?" Mycroft audibly leered into the phone.

John disconnected the call and looked under Sherlock's bed. Nothing. Well, nothing except the harpoon still covered in pigs blood that Sherlock had taken home on the Tube. The phone rang again and John ignored it. It went to voice mail, then rang again.  
John opened up Sherlock's closet and then answered the phone.

"Mycroft...why is your brother's closet lined with tin foil?"


	13. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs away with Sandy to join the Romani life. John returns to the hunt for Sherlock. Both begin to recognize that the answer to their problems lie in their past relationship.

"John"

Sherlock moaned as Sandy sucked him further down his throat. He wasn't aware of his mistake until he felt hesitation from Sandy. His eyes flew open and he looked down at Sandy and wondered how he ever could have thought Sandy looked Anything like John. 

"This isn't what I wanted." Sherlock murmured, and he pressed his hands against Sandy's shoulders. "I said a kiss. I didn't mean for this to happen. Can we stop. Please? Stop!" 

Sandy pulled off and leaned back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sorry. I...didn't you...I thought it was..."

Sherlock waved the apology away and quickly tucked his sagging cock back into his fly. 

"My fault entirely. I should have been clearer."

He risked a glance at the location of Mycroft's camera and determined that Sandy was still unrecognizable from this angle. 

"Let me just grab some cold weather clothes."  
Sherlock steered Sandy through the kitchen toward his bedroom. 

Mycroft detected his return quicker than Sherlock had estimated. He and Sandy were just climbing out John's bedroom window onto the fire escape, when he heard Mycroft's man kick open the door to the flat. 

Sandy was remarkably cool under pressure. He kept his mouth shut, breathed quietly and watched Sherlock sharply for the next move. They hopped facades and leapt gaps between roofs with no more sound than the soft scrape of shoes on shingles.

It wasn't until they were speeding away in Sandy's truck that they spoke.

"You left your bag of winter clothes behind." Sandy pointed out.

"Couldn't be helped." Sherlock shrugged, keeping an eye on the side mirror to check for a tail. 

"Who's... or rather who was John?"

"I don't know anyone named John," Sherlock positively glared, but Sandy wouldn't take a hint.

"You said his name, when I was..."

"No."

"You did. I was there. My mouth might have been full but my ears were open."

Sherlock burned with embarrassment.  
"You were mistaken."

Sandy smiled, but dropped it until they were nearly out of London. 

"He was the bloke in the bonfire, wasn't he?"

"If we could concentrate on solving your problems with your ex-boyfriend."

"Ben isn't my boyfriend."

"I did say 'ex'."

"Okay, I get the hint. John is off limits." Sandy chuckled warmly.

"You may be too clever for your own good, Sandy."

"And you may think I don't know how to read a street sign, Paul Sheffield of 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock licked his bottom lip nervously.

"C'mon mate, your secret is safe with me. I need a tall dark stranger, not a world famous detective." Sandy took his hand and gave it a squeeze. Then dropped it and drove on into the night. 

*******

Molly at first thought it was Greg sitting on the front stoop of her apartment building. The grey hair fooled her. Fancy Greg locking himself out, she thought, and prepared to tease him for his uncharacteristic forgetfulness. But as she walked closer she realized the size was wrong and then that the only man she knew of such short stature was John Watson. 

"John? What brings you here?"

She recognized that her greeting might have been less than warm, but she and John never stood on niceties with each other. They both recognized each other as allies in the war for Sherlock's soul, but the secrets Molly kept during John's grieving for Sherlock's suicide was a wall that existed between them still. 

"Hi Molly." John stood up. "Care to have a chat? I have a waitress holding a table for us at the pub on the corner."

Molly nodded, her lip curling slightly into a sardonic smile. That Pub had become the 'go to' spot for secret conversations away from Mycroft's all seeing, all hearing, spy network.  
Five minutes later they were in a corner booth with two pints. John leaned forward to keep his voice down. Molly cut him off.

"Before you start, I haven't seen him, or heard from him since our last outing."

"No. Of course. That wasn't my question." 

"Oh, sorry."

"It's alright. But I was hoping you could help me find him." 

"How is that? We couldn't find him before."

"We got close. Closer than Mycroft has managed with all the queens horses and all the queen's men."

"Hmmm." Molly nodded. She took a sip of her stout and looked back at John. He felt she was holding back, waiting for him to open. 

"Soooo...when Sherlock was in the wind, breaking up Moriarty's network, how did you contact him?"

"I didn't."

"No. But Sherlock would have given you a way, if Moriarty came after you. I know how he cares for you."

"And you. And Greg, and Mrs. Hudson" Molly bristled. 

"I get it, Molly, you don't have to explain why you kept his secret. But he would have had a way, a back up plan, in case Moriarty came for you..."

"A letter to the lovelorn." Molly whispered.  
John sat back. He didn't smile, but he was satisfied that he had guessed right. Sherlock had left a system. 

"Posted where?"

"Daily Mail."

"The Daily Mail? That rag?"

"He said it was found in every shop."

"True." John recalled a two day hunt for a book that everyone would have. 

"Let me guess, the post was a code."

"Well, the post would quote Shakespeare, the phone number or address would specify words from the quote. Line and word."

John nodded. 

"I suppose there is no hope he would still check the Mail for messages."

Molly shrugged. "As far as I could tell he never did."

"What do you mean? Were you in danger?"

She sighed. "No. But _you_ were. After his suicide I worried for you. I couldn't say anything, Mycroft told me to stay away, but I thought Sherlock owed you an explanation. I thought he should tell you himself. So I ran ads for ten Sunday's in a row, but he never responded."

Molly looked past John, and John ducked his head.

"Yeah, well, thanks for that."

"If I wasn't so sure that Mycroft would have thrown me in prison I would have told you, John. Of course he probably wouldn't have followed through but his threats seem so real."

John nodded. "I know. He can do things to...he can be convincing. I don't blame you...anymore." John smiled weakly. Molly huffed a soft laugh. 

"I did see him, that night, after Major Sholto called."

"Mycroft?"

"No. Sherlock. He sent me a text to his location, and then said he had to work alone and go away again. I didn't tell you because we didn't talk, you and me, after I dropped your car off at your house. I just went home and tried to get on with my..."

"You found Sherlock?"

"He found me. He was in Maidstone. He said I should take your car back and continue dating Greg." She smiled again, "I don't know how he knew about Greg."

"You?" John threw his hands in the air. "Of course he called you."

"Well, texted. But you know, we just talked for a second."

John swore softly under his breath. 

"I'm sorry, I thought you would drive back with Mycroft."

"Oh, he "dropped" me off." John's mind was scrambling to rearrange the new information into the time line of events. He finally shook his head to clear it and returned to the present. 

"So, what was the quote, the Shakespeare ?"

 

*****

"Dya, this is Paul Sheffield." 

Sandy was right. From the moment Sherlock unwound his lanky frame from the passenger side of the truck, Sandy's mother accepted him as her new son. It made him miss Mrs. Hudson more than he had at any point in his life.  


"Mrs...." Sherlock bowed, but Sandy's mother wrapped him in her left arm and kissed him on the cheek.

"You call me mother. You brought my son back to me. Welcome." 

"Sandy?" A deep voice called. Sherlock looked over the top of Sandy's mother's head to see a lanky young man, with curly hair and a wry smile part the crowd as he strode up to Sandy. 

"Ben." Sandy stood fast, stiffly refusing to move an inch. 

Without a word Ben hugged Sandy, squeezing him tight to his chest. The crowd murmured it's approval. Two childhood friends coming back together. The acceptance ignited into warmth. Almost as one, the group ambled toward a central bonfire with a loose collection of folding chairs ringing it. 

Food was brought out. A plate was shoved into Sherlock's hand. A glass into the other. He took a seat in a folding lawn chair out of the way and watched as Sandy was hugged and thumped on the back by everyone over the age of 15. 

"Paul, is it?" 

Sherlock tore his eyes from Sandy and looked up. 

"Yes."

A lithe young woman with sharp eyes and a mouth puckered in constant disappointment stood before him.

"Rachel" she referred to herself, extending a hand, which he could not shake without balancing his plate on his knees. 

"Ben's wife?" Sherlock spoke mostly to himself  
.  
"Yes. You know me.?"

"Sandy was telling me about his people. Your name came up."

Her eyes narrowed threateningly.

"I supposed we had seen the last of Sandy."

"You've had over two years without him, and two children. That should be time enough." Sherlock smiled radiantly at her. She didn't try to hide her scowl. 

"Time enough for what?"

"To poison Ben toward his best friend." 

Sherlock took a sip of the drink in his cup. It was strong enough to start a deadman's heart but Sherlock smacked his lips like it was fine wine. 

"Is that what Sandy is telling everyone? ..oh never mind. I got rid of him once. How hard can it be to do it twice?"

Sherlock thought at once of how cleanly Mary had cut John from his side. Simply by including him, by accepting him, she had maneuvered John into marriage, baby, suburbia. And Sherlock had helped, grateful to be part of it, until he wasn't part of it at all. Her "open door" policy toward Sherlock had tricked John into thinking their partnership was still whole.

"A bit of advice, from someone in the know, if you want to secure Ben to your side forever, embrace Sandy as part of your family."

"Embrace? Not likely!"

"Tell Ben he should spend time with Sandy. Tell him when he can go with him and where, then you look like a loving wife yet you control everything." 

Rachel studied him for a moment.  
"What's your stake in all this? Aren't you _with_ Sandy?"

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Sandy brought me home to meet his mother. I don't want to lose my man to an old friend any more than you do." 

Rachel smiled like a shark and laughed. 

"You and I are going to get along fine, Paul."

Footsteps pounded across the turf and Sherlock and Rachel looked up with alarm as Sandy and Ben ran toward them. Ben skidded to a stop and Sandy collided into him with an "Oooof" and a chuckle. 

"It's Paul, right?" Ben bent to look level into Sherlock's eyes.

Sandy spoke quickly. He was as flustered as a school boy at the obvious flood of emotions whirling in his body. He practically bounced on the balls of his feet. 

"Yeah! Ben this is Paul. Paul, Ben."

Sherlock tried to imagine what he would have looked like at Ben's age. The memories were vague. Drug use had been his paramour back then. He knew, from one or two photos taken in his 20's, that his eyes were always glassy and his expression haughty. Certainly the last time his eyes had sparkled like Ben's were... were... Baskerville? No. No. Wait, the hairless cat and the homosexuals. John had been so engaged with the process. 

A wave of regret threatened to wash him out to sea. He clawed his way back to the present.

"I guess there is something of a resemblance, Sandy." he extended his hand, "A pleasure to meet..."

Ben hauled him out of his seat, spilling his plate, and gave him a bear hug.

"Thanks for dragging Sandy back home, phal." 

Sherlock found he didn't have the breath to respond as Ben's arms wrapped as tight as gurney straps around him.

"Yes. Thank you, Paul. We have missed Sandy terribly." Rachel projected for all to hear. 

Sherlock noticed Sandy flinching at her obvious lie, but Ben broke away from Sherlock and turned to his wife with relief. 

"Yes. We all have." the grateful smile he gave his wife caused Rachel to drop her crossed arms. She smiled back, her eyes flicking once to Sherlock as if to acknowledge the wisdom of his advice. 

Sandy cooled visibly, but Sherlock reached for his hand and gave it a possessive squeeze.

"I didn't know I would be sharing Sandy with so many people. But it is nice to feel so welcomed."  
Sandy blinked at Sherlock then stepped closer. It was Ben's turn to cool. Rachel followed Sherlock's lead and took control. 

"Let's get a drink and join the rest."

"Yeah, lets." Sandy said.

"Bet I can still drink you under the table." Ben taunted. 

"We'll see about that." Sandy let go of Sherlock and joined Ben stride for stride toward the rest of Sandy's friends and family.

 

A week after Sherlock joined Sandy in Scotland, a ferry went down in the North Sea, between England and the Netherlands. 

Moriarty took over the airwaves to crow about it. All his idea of course. And more was to come unless Sherlock Holmes stopped him.

At the time Sherlock Holmes was living a life so far removed from any media that he never heard of the event. So he didn't read the newspapers crying out for Sherlock Holmes to stop this madman. 

And he didn't read the lovelorn column in the Daily Mail.

"A pair of star-crossed lovers  
take their life,  
Whose misadventured piteous  
overthrows  
Doth with their death bury their  
parents’ strife. . . .  
   
O, I am fortune’s fool! . . .  
   
Then I defy you, stars."  
1/2-3/2-5/5-6/2. 7. 8.


	14. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John and Sherlock move farther apart, do they move closer together?

Mycroft gripped the arms of the dentist's chair and struggled against the instinct to verbally eviscerate the masked man bending over him. Of course the pick and mirror shoved into his mouth helped his self control.  
"These cracks in your molars, Mr. Holmes, this is from grinding. I see this a lot in men with high pressure jobs." The dentist prodded against a suspicious crack and Mycroft nearly levitated off the seat.  
"Tender? Mmmm. That will need a crown I'm afraid." The dentist plucked his tools from Mycroft's mouth and sat back.  
"You will have to find a way to reduce your stress, or learn to sleep with a mouth guard."  
Mycroft spat in the rinse bowl and turned a livid glare onto the dentist.  
"If I wanted a psych consult I would have gone to a man with a proper university education, not some trade school hack."  
"Insulting the man who is about to give you a shot of novacane may not be the recommended course of action, Mr. Holmes."  
"Threatening a man who knows where your children go to school is no less dangerous, Doctor."  
The dentist stiffened.  
"My apologies, Mr. Holmes. I assure you the procedure will be painless."  
Mycroft lay his head back against the cradle and stared into the overhead spotlight.  
Sherlock.  
This was all his fault. Public opinion was turning against his little brother and the government as Moriarty pulled off crime after crime unfettered. Maybe his brother had finally shattered to the point that he could not be glued back together.  
There was no "crown" to fix Sherlock if John Watson couldn't find him and Moriarty couldn't lure him out.  
It might be time to consider some other course of action. But that would require admitting that his brother had defeated him.  
Christmas would be hell.  
He exhaled heavily.  
"Let's get on with this, Doctor."

*****

Sandy and Ben became as inseparable as they had been when they were two lads growing up together. Far from disapproving, the clan seemed to accept the friendship as something rare and wonderful. Sherlock suspected it was Paul's presence that kept people from thinking Ben and Sandy were indecent. Ben's wife Rachel kept the tag of "gay" off of Ben, and Sherlock kept the tag of "interloper" off Sandy.  
Rachel might have hated Sandy's return, but truth be told, she was a bit bored with married life. Sherlock, as Paul the cosmopolitan Londoner, kept Rachel so distracted with gossip and glamor of the City that she didn't notice the amount of time Sandy and Ben spent away from camp. For the moment things worked well. 

The feeling of protection that came from eating, playing, working and sleeping within a vigilant group of people allowed Sherlock to recover from the state of extreme paranoia that had gripped him in London and held him fast even as Paul the deck hand. He was invisible to the all seeing eyes of his brother, he was 95% sure of that.

Well, maybe 94%.

He had to conclude that, since in eight months he had not yet ended up garrotted or imprisoned in a cell, Moriarty couldnt find him either. Furthermore- the complete absence of black-ops helicopters swooping down to snatch him up verified that the tracking device Molly had found and removed from his leg was the only hardware on his body. Mostly Sherlock no longer felt vulnerable to the eyes in the sky. 

It did get tedious -this bucolic life- but he entertained himself by learning new knife fighting techniques, over coming a life long nervousness with horses and teaching the bear to dance to Paganini. 

Oh yes, they had a dancing bear. 

The patriarch of the tribe, in his 80's, still drove a wagon and had a dancing bear. The group would move ahead to a new place, set up camp pass around flyers and by the time Encio rolled up with his horse and wagon pulling a grey muzzled bear in a cage curious onlookers, from what ever village they were camped outside of, would start to wander in. 

They only put on big shows on the weekend. The bear, some horse racing with locals, mock knife fights, a few games of chance, it would bring in enough to keep the group solvent for a while. During the week there was just a curio stand and Sandy's mother would tell fortunes for five quid. 

Some men would sell home brewed ales or wines, but most able-bodied men would pass through town looking for odd jobs to earn a bit.  
It was an inefficient life style, but a beautiful one. 

On one occasion, Sherlock asked Encio if the bear might dance better to live music instead of the taped version of Teddy Bear's Picnic.  
Encio sighed and just held up his arthritic hands.

"You played the violin." Sherlock surmised.

"Better than anyone in the world. Come." 

Encio lead Sherlock to his wagon and from deep inside emerged with a very old but highly polished violin. 

"May I?"  
Sherlock reverently took what was obviously a treasured item from the man's hands and with a few plucks determined that Encio kept it up.

"You keep it tuned." Sherlock marveled. Encio handed him a bow and Sherlock closed his eyes and launched into eight bars of Paganini's Caprice 24. 

Sherlock was blissfully unaware, as he lost himself in music, of the change in the atmosphere of the camp. Music of that caliber had not been heard in many years. Every man, woman, and child paused and cocked an ear at the voice of Encio's violin. Half way through the piece Sherlock felt a hand still his arm.

"Paul." 

He opened his eyes. Encio's eyes shown with tears, but he pointed to the madly pacing bear rattling his chain.

"He is an old bear. He cannot dance to such fast music. But you will play for me tonight?" It was request and order as one.

Sherlock smiled and began a slow and macabre version of Teddy Bear's Picnic. The bear immediately began to shift from foot to foot in time to the music. 

"You will play for the bear Paul." Encio declared. And like that, Sherlock earned a place in the tribe. 

Sometimes when Sandy smiled at Ben Sherlock would think of John. John before Mary and even before Bart's. John before he had started to spy for Mycroft. When he was still a shy intense soldier with a crush on a tall, dramatic, anti-establishment, bohemian in a long coat. At such times Sherlock would feel hollow and dash tears angrily from his eyes. He would borrow Encio's cart horse, Emil, spring up on him bareback and take a long ride through what ever part of countryside they were currently camped in. If the horse thought it odd that his rider never bridled him, let him choose the route, and never spoke a command to him but instead held long, one sided conversations with another human - who wasn't even there- the horse never let on with any thing more obvious than an ear rotating backwards to listen. 

*****

"What do you mean you 'should have taken the head shot'?"  
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. 

Mary was driving. It was a sunny day. Hot even. Helen gurgled and chirped from the child seat in the back. Mary spoke, looking straight ahead.  
"If I had known you were going to continue to mope about the guy, living or dead, I might as well have just killed him."  
John's cheeks heated with rage. He wanted to shout, but Helen was in the car. He kept his voice even.  
"Or not bothered shooting him at all! How about that?"  
She stared ahead, lips pursed.  
"We've been over this, John, I couldn't risk you finding out. I didn't want to lose you."  
"Lose me?! You know what a mess I was the first time he "died". You thought I would do better with him bleeding out in my arms? You might as well have shot me too."

"You know, you're right."

"Yeah. Course I am."

" _You_ didn't propose to me until he came back. You had the chance to break up with me the night he crashed our dinner date, and you didn't. You could have made your peace with him then, moved back in to Baker Street and been blissfully happy being his bit of stuff on the side, but you didn't. You _used_ me to make him miserable. To show him. The scoundrel here is you, John Watson. You're the one I should have shot. You knock me up and marry me and the whole damn time..."

"Yes yes I know I know you're right what do you want me to do about it now?"  
John was quickly spinning from rage to guilt again. It was the dynamic of his marriage. 

"I want you to stop blaming me. I'm the one committed to this marriage not you. Sherlock bleeding Holmes left you. Didn't just leave you but Used you for his Suicide Note. The man has his charms I admit it but he doesn't love anyone, least of all you. So if you want to point the finger at anyone, you only have yourself to blame."

"Blame" Helen burbled from the back.

"Gah!"  
John shouted and flung the door open.

"John what are you...?"  
Mary slammed on the brakes as John flung himself out. 

He ran blindly down the first sidewalk, his ears buzzing, his breath fighting to draw air in past the lump in his throat. By the next cross street he slowed to a jog and dodged traffic as he crossed the street and then cut up an alley that lead to a path along a canal. 

It was incredibly childish. A tantrum to be honest, but he couldn't see a way around. Another second in the company of his wife and he would have started crying, or bit his lip in half. Or punched her. 

He slowed to a walk.

What to do?  
To admit defeat in his marriage felt like failing his child as well. To stay was a constant reminder that he was with the wrong person. 

Mary was right, it was all his fault. He had chosen wrong, and now, the good soldier was stuck in a war he could not win. No longer the good guy, John was blackmailed by an assassin wife who held his daughter for ransom.  
If Sherlock had stayed dead. None of this would have happened. None of Mary's past would have come out. She would have said "yes" at the dinner that he spent a week's wages on. They would have had a small marriage, nothing as fancy as Sherlock had helped arrange, and Greg or Mike would have been best man. Life would have been peaceful. Dull. Monotonous. Ordinary. Of course no one would have saved Major Sholto. He would have died at their wedding. That would have been a terrible loss since, it turns out now, Sholto was his father in law. (Another sneaky thing Mary had done, using her father's list of friends as a starting point to find a reliable devoted man to hook her wagon to.)

So Sherlock saved the life of the bride's father on her wedding day, before he risked life and limb and life in prison going after CAM, again to save the Bride. One might think Sherlock fancied Mary. 

A delicious cocktail of jealousy, frustration and rage surged thru him. He ran again. Thoughts pounded in his brain with every foot fall. 

Sherlock did what ever he bloody well pleased. Want to go off hunting Moriarty's syndicate, off he goes. Oh he tells everyone it's to keep his loved one's safe, but then he had admitted to Anderson that the snipers were all in jail by the time he faked his death.  
So it was just a jaunt. A vacation from his short stupid companion, and worse, he had not cared enough about John to send him a note to so he wouldn't have to grieve. 

Mary at least wanted what John had to give her, stability and the veil of a normal life. She had lied and cheated to get what she wanted, as bad as Sherlock. She killed Sherlock to keep what John could give her. She was every bit as merciless and self centered as Sherlock. She wanted him, just as he was. That was something, yeah? But he knew the second she wanted something else, she wouldn't have even a half second of doubt about moving on. Would she take Helen?

Helen's voice echoed in his ears.

"Blame"

She was not to blame. She was the only innocent in all of this.  
John resolved that Helen would grow up free of the mendacity surrounding her elders. 

He slowed to a jog, then a walk and finally caught a cab back home. 

 

http://youtu.be/YCsVEsQlm7o


	15. We Lost A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Shakespeare start with the same letters.

Sherlock rose softly to consciousness; floating up from a troubling dream like the long dead body of a drowning victim finally dislodged from the bottom of the Thames.  
He was at Mycroft's. His Long Ordeal -which one was it? So hard to recall. Long Ordeals seemed to collect like cords of firewood in his life. The one with The jump? Yes? The...two years, yes...undercover, dismantling Moriarty's network? 

That was it.

That Long Ordeal was finally over, and he was buttoning his new suit, smelling of shaving cream. That pretty red haired woman that spoon fed Mycroft all his information, Blood? 

Artemus? 

Anyway...

Mycroft was prattling about terrorists. Sherlock was wondering where John was. 

"Where is he?"

Mycroft was miffed that Sherlock wasn't giving him his undivided attention. Well how could he? It was John after all. John had been waiting for him for two years; patiently, like his Setter pup. It was cruel, now he was back, to make him wait a second longer. 

"We lost a good man getting this information!" 

Mycroft was nearly emotional.  
Someone he knew? An agent he had used often, relied on. Had he been be-headed like The Woman?

Wait. 

The Woman was not be-headed. Someone saved her. He had saved her. How had he tracked her to... oh gods, his memory, so many rescues...what country? Sand. Bedouines like Lawrence of Arabia.  
Saudi Arabia. Had he used a scimitar? 

Things were beginning to muddle.

"A good man gave his life getting this Intel."  
Mycroft.  
Repeating himself back at 221b. He never repeated himself.

It was definitely personal then.  
Why had he missed that?

With a gasp for air Sherlock awoke.  
The camper he was sleeping in rattled in a strong spring squall.  
It was lucky they had found a camper shell for Sandy's truck. It was tiny and Sherlock loathed the musty smell of the previous owners, but it kept out most of the weather.  
A tiny chemical toilet was hidden in a ridiculously small closet. Sandy was small enough to use it, but Sherlock still preferred to brave the weather and go outside. If he stayed for another winter he would have to find a caravan for them to tow behind the truck. 

Sherlock pulled on his rain gear and stomped out into the gale force wind. Dark clouds battled across the sky. His hair whipped into his eyes so hard it stung. He ducked his head and trudged to the temporary latrine set up for the camp.  
A woman wrapped in scarves and robes hurried away from the latrine, back to her caravan. 

'It must be harder for women, this life.' Sherlock thought. 

Later, as he sipped hot tea in the camper with Sandy, he thought of his dream.

"We lost a good man"  
That was an expression. Would they have said "We lost a good woman"?

"That must be a harder life for a woman."

"Yeah?" Sandy answered.

Sherlock realized he had spoken out loud. 

"Sorry." Sherlock smiled. "Just thinking of something from a long time ago." he set down his tea.  
"I'm going for a walk."

"In this storm?"

"It's just a bit of wind and water."  
He said, shrugging into his rain gear. 

It felt nice, this. A tiny whiff of a trail, tantalizing. A small warm man worried about his comfort to wait for him. 

Lovely. 

He scooped up his laptop bag and tucked it inside his jacket. 

"I will be back before dark." He gave Sandy a soft look then a nod and plunged out into the storm. 

******  
"I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,  
To die upon the hand I love so well."  
Hamish

John had given up on using the codes; he found simply using the quotations themselves to be more satisfying. Digging through Shakespeare had dislodged emotions that he had kept tightly bound for some time. The mental image of Sherlock in a cafe somewhere- not in London, obviously, or Mycroft would have found him- but maybe in Holland or Prague, in an internet cafe, reading John's posts in the missed connections column, lit up a flame in John that had been extinguished for so long.  
John didn't like to think too hard about what that meant. It was love, he couldn't deny that. But not the sweet love he felt for Mary when they courted.  
No. This was a conflagration. It burned everything in it's path and only those whose love was strong enough would emerge purified at the end. John was in a bunker of normalcy, assigning the cause of the heat radiating from the door to his shelter to a bright sunny day, but a savage part of him, lurking still in his flashbacks of Afghanistan, knew what was waiting just outside and whined with impatience to throw open the door and let Hell in. 

For now John just allowed himself a smile when he imagined Sherlock reading...

"O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce."  
H  
...and knowing that Sherlock would recognize Mary in that quote. 

It was a bit of therapy, this, a happy place in his mind. Hadn't his therapist always told him to find a happy place? 

Lately he had been finding a gold mine of quotes in "Midsummer's Night Dream". The Fairy King and Queen pulling all the strings reminded him of the Holmes brothers.  
Sherlock was the queen, Titania, working to right wrongs, while Mycroft was Oberon, a selfish bastard who wanted to control Titania and take her Indian page for his own.  
John had read ahead and knew that Oberon vanquished his wife. And took her page. 

John set his jaw.

He would save Titania.  
Everyone saw him as Sherlock's pet. He was like Nick Bottom, awaking from the nightmare of post-Afghanistan PTSD to find someone as fine as Sherlock entranced by his simple soldier's loyalty.  
Well he would apply that soldier's training to save Sherlock from his brother. 

""For never anything can be amiss, When simpleness and duty tender it."

 

*****

Mary noticed the cash advances.

In a world of credit, who needed cash? It was the simplest tell. What did old crime shows say "Follow the money." 

Well in this new age "Follow the cash" was more apropos. 

John was taking £40 a week out of their savings account for the last two months. She probably should have noticed sooner, but frankly who ever looks at the savings statements?  
She considered asking John what the cash was for, but then decided to just follow him instead. 

*****

Mycroft sneered at the naked affection in John's posts.  
He had the phone in his hand, ringing through to the Daily Mail's personal column desk, scratching out a barely remembered quote from Romeo and Juliet about "denying thy father" and snickering at the thought of John thinking Sherlock was responding to his messages, when he recalled that John was trying to find Sherlock on his command.

"Bad form to scuttle your own mission." he said to himself and disconnected as a tinny voice directed him to press 1 for English. 

*****

It was noon before Sherlock reached the village. The rain still came down in sheets and he was the only person on the streets. He worried that no business would be open, but luckily a tea shop was lit up like a tiny lighthouse in the middle of the block.  
He sat down and ordered a pot of tea and opened the old laptop Paula had given him.  
A network search turned up no free wifi. He grumbled.

"Looking to get on the internet?" the waitress asked as she settled a tray in the middle of his table. 

"Oh, yes. I've been out of touch for weeks."

"Are you one of the gypsies camping south of town?"

Sherlock wondered if he should correct her. Would it increase or decrease the likelihood of her helping him?

"Romany, actually. It's the term they prefer. I am traveling with them. Yes. And they are decidedly not on the web."

She smiled. 

Good choice then.

"You can use mine. Password is EarlGrey. The teashoppe one, there."  
She pointed onto the screen.

"Oh, ta!" Sherlock dipped into John's phrasing.

In a moment he was deep into two year old Daily Mail's searching the obituary columns, mysterious deaths and accidents. It was always a possibility that the "good man" was lost in a foreign country, but Sherlock hoped that his mind would catch onto something that screamed "Mycroft's people" as he scanned the headlines. 

Nothing turned up, so he looked further back; into the time when he would have been deep undercover in another country. 

Nepal? Why Nepal? Oh yes, Moriarty used it as a base to smuggle people and goods in and out of China. So of course Sherlock had to go there. He couldn't remember if he flew in, or climbed over the foothills and rode up on an ass, but he did have a very clear scene in his head of triggering an avalanche to crush Moriarty's mountain side base. Vivid, actually, almost like a movie. 

And then, on to...Germany was it? 

Quite by accident he stumbled onto the missed connection pages.  
His blood froze.  
He quickly checked the dates. Just two weeks after his staged jump from Bart's.  
He remembered so clearly-far more clearly than he recalled the details of his service on a German jury- speaking to Molly. He was terrified that she would be killed for helping him. He kept her away from every window as they walked the hallways of St. Bart's. He insisted on entering each room first. Finally, when he was convinced they were out of earshot or line of sight, he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders. 

"You can reach me through the Daily Mail. If you notice ANYTHING suspicious. If a new employee turns up, if you catch someone prowling around your home, don't hesitate to leave town and leave me a message. In that order. I will find you and keep you safe, no matter what."

Sherlock frowned. A headache was beginning to swell in his right temple. 

Why had he not checked? Was he such a cad that he forgot her as soon as he left London?  
His eyes dropped back to the quote:

"The time is out of joint, oh cursed spite,  
That ever I was born to set it right!"  
1\. 5. 2. 6-9.

"Time to set it right." What did that mean. He had a compulsion to call Molly and ask her.  
He looked forward- pulling up a Daily Mail from two months after the "Set it right" quote.  
His heart fluttered in the oddest way. She had given up on the code and simply thrown Shakespeare in with her home phone number. So reckless.

"But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue."

What if Moriarty had seen that?. No. Moriarty was dead, or was he?

"Miss? Have you any aspirin?" he called plaintively to the waitress. 

He looked ahead another month.

"A countenance more in sorrow than in anger" followed by John's mobil phone number.

Molly was never going to be spy material. 

Sherlock felt a sudden desire for food.  
More.  
For heat and small talk and John.

He tried to shrug it off.  
Remember. Remember. Remember.  
John was working with Mycroft. He had seen them together. What ever the motivation, perhaps his heart broken by Sherlock's death and then hardened to stone by his return, John was working against him. 

Sherlock's head was pounding. 

He looked ahead another month in the Mail's archives.  
Nothing.  
Well of course, even Molly would give up after so long.  
He looked ahead another month.  
Nothing.

His mouth was suddenly filling with saliva. His stomach churned. 

"Here love, fresh from the oven."  
A plate of warm orange scones appeared before him. He looked up into her worried brown eyes. 

"You're my only customer, it looks better if you're eating." She handed him a bottle of pills.  
"Hope these help."

The scones smelled fantastic. He shoved one into his mouth and shivered. It absorbed the saliva collecting behind his bottom front teeth. Chewing alleviated the pain in his temples and swallowing pushed down that lump of sentiment that was threatening to choke him. 

"Try one with butter." 

"I will, thank you." he spoke with gravity. The waitress gave him a side long glance. He scolded himself for slipping back into his public school voice.  
"These are great, love. Hit the spot." 

The waitress smiled and went back to the counter. 

Sherlock popped four pills into his mouth and washed them down with warm tea before returning to his laptop.

Had Molly sent him any lately? He had been out of touch for over a year. Maybe she wanted him to be her Best Man at she and Greg's wedding.  
Did that happen?

He scrolled to this week's paper to find another Shakespeare quote. 

"Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,  
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend  
More than cool reason ever comprehends. "  
H

H.  
H?  
Sherlock couldn't catch a breath.  
Who was... well of course he knew who H was.

What did it mean?  
He read it again, and again.  
He read it word by word. He read it phrase by phrase.

Was he meant to be the madman? The lover? Obviously he was the Cold Reason- or was that obvious? Was love meant to be superior to reason?  
Wait, was John the lover and He the madman? Or were lover's and madmen meant to be equal? A state of seething madness gripping them both, Ahhhh, that was it, and the madness allowing them to fabricate truths that logic could not fathom.

"Well that's absurd, John."  
He spoke aloud and his voice startled him. 

But what if... the madman was Moriarty and John thought Sherlock loved his enemy in his seething madness?

"Christ."

"Beg pardon?"  
The waitress looked over stocking her display case.

"Sorry. Just got a bit of news. Old girlfriend married the wrong chap."

"Oh. Still fond of her?" the woman scrunched up her facial features into what Sherlock imagined was empathy.

"Yeah. Guess I still fancy her more than I thought."

"That's too bad, laddie. But there are many more girls. And you're a handsome fellow..."  
The woman trailed off, blushing.

Sherlock was horrified. By employing John's form of chat he now had an enamored waitress on his hands. What did one do? If he returned the compliment he felt certain the situation would worsen. 

What would John say? 

"Um. Thanks. Er. Coming from you that is..." yes, this might work, "quite a compliment."

Sherlock looked closely.  
Relief. Shoulders dropped. Blushing continued. Smile. 

Right. 

"You're sweet." She said. "Another pot, dear?"  
"Oh, I'm fine. Ta." 

The situation seemed diffused for the moment, rather like the bomb in the train carriage.  
Hurriedly Sherlock returned to his laptop.

Lovers and madmen indeed.

John and Molly must have spoken about the code. Unless Mycroft had noticed the code and told John about it. 

Gods, the implications never ceased.  
He looked back a week in time and snorted out loud. 

That had to be Mary. Little and fierce.  
Suddenly John, old John, was with him in the tea room, giggling. 

Sherlock pulled up the week before.

"I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,  
To die upon the hand I love so well."  
Hamish

****

Sandy got worried as the sun sank behind the grey wall of trees to the west. He fired up his pickup and drove slowly into town, searching both sides of the road for his friend Paul. 

He followed the road into town and stopped in the middle of the street.  
In the window of a tea shop he saw Paul sitting stone still and staring into space. 

Sandy parked the car and walked in. Paul didn't even look up at the bell tinkling. Sandy nodded at the waitress and walked up behind Paul. 

"Alright?" 

Paul seemed to surface from a terrible depth. He was not there and then gradually he was, like his mother, when she read tarot cards for the locals. Paul lifted his chin and rolled his shoulders and turned his sharp eyes onto Sandy.

"Yes."

"Home then?"

Paul took a deep breath.  
"Yes." 

Paul collected his laptop.  
"I will meet you in the truck? I want to settle up."

"Right."  
Sandy waited outside on the step and watched Paul go to the cash register. He chatted a bit with the waitress as she totaled his bill. Sandy was curious as Paul wrote something down on a paper napkin and handed the Waitress what looked to be 40 pounds in paper notes. 

Heavy bill for tea and scones. 

*****


	16. It Began With the Rapist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To those sturdy souls who have followed this seemingly endless PG fic, I thank you. 
> 
> How about some much needed wank. 
> 
> The next chapter is already underway. My apologies for the Grand Canyon sized gaps between chapters. The end is in sight.

It Began With the Rapist

They were at Buckingham Palace, surrounded by velvet and the reflected lights off of a thousand gold and crystal surfaces. Sherlock, draped in a sheet, fumed and fussed next to him on the Regent period love seat. John noted the worn softness of Sherlock's own bed clothes. They had plucked him from his bed, then, and bustled his naked length into a car. A shocking violation of their home and his partner's physical space. Did he fancy a set of finger shaped bruises just purpling on Sherlock's bicep? His Sherlock? 

Anger burned a rash on his cheeks. He needed to square this. Someone had to be taught You Do Not Touch His Friend. He ducked his chin and looked around with murder in his eyes but no hulking body guards could be seen.  
It was just the four of them; he and Sherlock on one side of the tea setting and the Queen's spokesman and Mycroft on the other. 

Currently Mycroft was putting on a symposium on how to fawn over Royalty and scowl at Sherlock simultaneously. 

So much for Mycroft being "the English government" John thought, it was pathetically apparent that Mycroft could still be a sucker for a queen. 

No doubt Mycroft was the man to blame for Sherlock's bruises but, frankly, John imagined he would get about as much satisfaction from punching Mycroft as he would his own sister, Harry. There was something so "ladylike" about the man that it triggered John's chivalrous reflexes. No matter how much he wanted to take a swing at Mycroft, his father's admonishment that boys don't hit girls stayed his fist. 

So he simmered. 

Sherlock fed the absurdity of the situation by sulking and pouting. For a genius he was remarkably thick when it came to dealing with Mycroft. The two of them instantly reverted to ten and three when they were in the same room. 

Not that he and Harry were the poster kids for mental health in family dynamics, but at least they made some attempt at an adult sibling relationship. 

John grew impatient and even a bit bored. He hummed under his breath and bounced his knee while pretending to be awed by the vulgar display of opulence in the vaulted ceiling room. Out of his peripheral vision he noted the officer's bearing of their host "from on high" as the brittle authority figure tried to belittle Sherlock's substandard height. John would bet a years wages one hour in Khandahar would have the man pissing himself. By the end of his first week he would have been fragged by his own men for incompetency. 

Oh. Great. Now the brothers were squabbling and Sherlock was standing to make one of his flouncing exits, whipping his sheet around him like a cape. John stood to go. His ears burned from the absurdity of the situation and his apparent involvement in it. The Queen's spokesman raised an eyebrow at him as if to imply that Captain Watson had lost control of his charge. Poor form. Tut tut. This is what comes from promoting the lower classes. 

Wanker. 

John's fists clinched. 

Mycroft stepped on the sheet as it trailed on the floor past him. The sheet pulled taught; then gave.

Magically there it was- white as marble, blue shadings in the shadows, more elegant than anything in this whole bloody castle- Sherlock's back.

More than that.

Sherlock's backside. The slim waist tapering into round cheeks and dancer's legs. Sherlock stiffened. 

"Unh." John stiffened too. 

John heard Mycroft say something smarmy, but his ears were buzzing so loudly that he couldn't make out the words. The Queen's officer leered. No doubt the ponce knew his way around a man's backside. John felt the skin on his shoulders ripple like a horse's when a fly landed on its withers. 

"Enough!" John barked. He sneered at the officer.  
"Back off you great git!"  
His feet were moving; carrying him towards Sherlock, who was turning to look over his shoulder at the commotion. 

"Get off of him you sallow poofta!"  
John shoved Mycroft smartly with the heels of both palms, sending him pinwheeling backwards. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice had lost all its arrogance. It was the voice for John; the one he used when he had a question he didn't already know the answer to.

"Down."  
John's voice was hard, brooked no back talk, but implied in it the doctor's assurance that all would be fine.  
Sherlock began to bend his knees, but was unsure of what John meant.

"Knees." John whispered harshly. The light dimmed around them. Sherlock's back warmed to pale dun in flickering candlelight. 

There was a soft thump as Sherlock's knees hit the Persian rug beneath them. John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's loose curls and tilted his head so he could speak softly into his ear.

"Where have you been?"

For once Sherlock didn't evade. 

"Hiding." He gasped as John bit into his exposed neck. The room darkened even more. They were alone in a circle of soft light. John ran a hand possessively down across the soft whisps of hair on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock arched his back; his stomach quivering under John's hand. 

John forgot to breath as he marveled at the smooth warmth of flawless skin over jumping muscle. His own shirt had somehow been removed, not sure when he did that, and his chest brushed Sherlock's shoulder as he reached further around and down.  
Sherlock's cock was hiding from him under the sheet.

"Shy." John said with a chuckle and nipped Sherlock's ear lobe. "Hiding where?"

"Everywhere."

"Why?" he felt the slide of hardening cock under the sheet with the back of his hand and trapped it against Sherlock's inner thigh.

"Oh." Sherlock said with surprise and tried to turn to face John. John stopped him with a tug of hair and a friendly "Un uh". 

"Why did you hide from me?"

"Scared." Sherlock shivered and leaned back in John's arms, letting him reach the nervous protrusion of his prick. John squeezed it once and released it. 

"Uhnn" Sherlock complained. 

"Scared?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes looked searchingly up at John, trying to gauge his mood.

John pushed Sherlock forward, and kept pushing him until he was on his hands and knees. John's teeth flashed a predatory smile as the sheet lost it's battle with gravity and slid off Sherlock's flank. 

Sherlock stiffened. His elbows locked, his thighs were at right angles to the floor. 

"Scared of me, Sherlock?"

John's hands were at his fly and belt at the same moment, the clack of buckle made Sherlock start, but John stilled him with a hand rested gently on his lower back. His trousers and pants slid down to his knees. 

"Sherlock?"

John crouched behind Sherlock, lining his cock up with the delicious valley running north and south down Sherlock's back and cresting at the rise of his ass. He let his thick cock rest cozily between the cheeks. 

Oh that was nice. Sherlock tensed and his glutes squeezed softly at John's hardness. 

"Oh yes. I will give you something to fear, answer me, Sherlock. Why are you afraid. Of me?"

He was breaching him, Sherlock gave way with a groan. John's breath rasped in his throat, he felt feverish and dizzy, but his body kept on. Sliding into tight warmth that tightened both to keep him out and to keep him in.

"John." Sherlock whined. His head fell forward, dropping between his shoulders, the tightness lessened. 

"Oh ho." John snarled. "You're not afraid of me now, are you."

Sherlock shook his head no and his knees slid further apart, dropping the height of his buttocks so John could bend over his back and reach the corner of the nape of his neck and his traps and pull him back on to his cock, seating it deep, brushing the nerves on the dorsal side. 

"So why...were...you...afraid..."  
John stabbed forward on each word. He felt electric and deadly and his balls were hot and heavy as molten lead.  
"Tell me!"

"Oh god, John, oh god oh god oh god" Sherlock panted. 

"Sherlock. I will fuck you so hard you will feel it in your tonsils. Tell me."

Sherlock dropped to his elbows, his forehead touched the floor.

"Do it." He growled. 

"No." John stopped. It was like stopping a train, and his balls protested painfully.  
"Not until you tell me."

"It's the Rapist." Sherlock whined, and too his credit he did not try and back up onto John's cock, but waited, panting. 

"The Rapist?" John rocked back into him, slowly, pensively. 

"Yes. The R-A-P-I-S-T." Sherlock was getting impatient. 

"Am I the Rapist?" John asked, his cock singing with pleasure to be rutting again. 

"Oh for god's sake John." Sherlock pulled off so he could turn around and blast him with the full wilting effect of his frustration. 

"It's a clue! A clue to follow and solve. I couldn't have been any clearer." 

Sherlock's brows furrowed as he searched John's face for understanding. Seeing none he snorted.

"If you spent half as much effort on the head on your shoulders as you do the one in your hand, you would have solved it by now." 

John was mortified to find that he indeed had his cock in his hand and was stroking it hard and fast, helplessly caught up in the rush to orgasm.

"Am...I...?"

Sherlock looked toward the ceiling and huffed.

"No. No you are not."

"Oh...oh...good...that's...uhg..." John inhaled and came hard, so hard he was unable to emit a sound. 

"Someone is here to see you." Sherlock was standing, sheet wrapped around him like a Greek toga. He smiled and turned to disappear into the surrounding darkness. 

"Dada?"


	17. I'll Be Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nature vs. Nurture

I'll be Mother

The tea tray sat like a chess set between the two elderly ladies. The tea, Mrs. Hudson had to admit, was exquisite. She recognized the flavor, a brand she had not been able to afford since her husband had been executed. But the biscuits and pastries were store bought, and even the best bakery was no match for fresh from the oven. She took some comfort in that, and pointedly left half the scone un-eaten on her saucer.  
Mrs. Holmes noticed, and sat back with a twisted smile. She sipped her tea and waited.  
Mrs. Hudson smiled back.  
"You have a lovely home. It is so charming."  
"Well thank you. It's been in our family for years."  
Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. Her eyes flitted over the simple but we'll built furniture and the ancient hearth. She lifted her shoulders.  
"It's cozy, isn't it."  
"We like it." Mrs. Holmes kept her silver eyes unflinchingly on Mrs. Hudson, waiting.  
"Well, though, I am surprised. It seems so normal..."  
Mrs. Holmes arched one eyebrow.  
"It's just that Mycroft and Sherlock have such a way about them. Rather, 'to the manor born' and yet this is..."  
"I'm afraid the Holmes family sold the 'manor' shortly after the first world War. This summer villa and five acres overlooking the lake is the last of my husband's family home. Still, there is money, in the bank. In investments. And the family name still helped our children open doors to the right schools. Does that satisfy your curiosity, dear."  
Mrs. Hudson could feel the tips of her ears heating at the veiled hostility. She sat back and crossed her legs at the ankle.  
"I'm afraid life with Sherlock has put me in the habit of directness. Perhaps to the point of rudeness, I meant no insult. God knows I am not one to judge anyone's circumstances."  
"Oh. Of course. I recall some business with a drug dealer, or cartel? That's how you landed that three story building in the heart of London. Yes?"  
"My. Sherlock has shared all my secrets I see."  
"Well Myke told me that. He does keep his oar in when it comes to his little brother."  
"Oh indeed, his oar, his nose and his spies." Mrs. Hudson was feeling a bit crisp at this point.  
"You've been more than fairly compensated, financially, for my son's infrequent interference at your apartment building. I hardly think you have much reason to grouse."  
"I'm not 'grousing', Mrs. Holmes. I'm just saying that Mycroft is Sherlock's brother, that's all, not his parent. And it's healthy for Sherlock to want a bit of independence from his interference."  
"May I remind you, Mrs. Hudson, that you Are Not family. You are my son's landlady."  
"We may not be blood, Mrs. Holmes, your Sherlock and I, but we have a bond none the less. May I remind you that when Moriarty wanted to force Sherlock to kill himself he targeted me." Mrs. Hudson politely left out the '...and not you.' replacing it with a gentle smile and a sympathetic tilt of her head.  
"Well of course you were targeted, along with John and Lestrade, you lot enabled him."  
"Beg pardon?" Mrs. Hudson was briefly confused. "Enabled him? Do you mean seeing that he's fed?"  
"Of course I suppose it's no surprise though, is it? You have so much experience with addicts."  
Mrs. Hudson was ready to rise to her feet, but she settled for loudly rattling her tea cup and saucer as she set them back on the caddy.  
"You're implying that I gave Sherlock drugs?"  
"No, dear, but there are other addictions for someone with an addictive personality. My Sherlock is addicted to his puzzles, isn't he, and you provided him with a place and access to all of London's lost souls. You didn't even deny him midnight visitors or throw him out for all the damage he did to your property. Even when you were beaten by CIA men-"  
"I wasn't actually beaten..."  
"Yes you were. Your dress was torn and you were dragged up a flight of stairs and threatened with your life."  
"Oh, of course, you must have seen the video. Did Mycroft set up a screen and play them at family gatherings?"  
Mrs. Holmes was staggered for a moment. "Of course not. Mycroft told me over Christmas dinner."  
"You people..." Mrs. Hudson fairly fumed.  
"Still, dear, even though my son's behaviour created a constant threat to your own safety, you never asked him to move out. Any therapist would tell you that is a sure sign of co-dependency."  
Mrs. Hudson sniffed.

"Well I suppose you are the expert on all that therapy nonsense. Although honestly I can't see that it's done Sherlock any good. But answer me this, Mrs. Holmes, if I am so bad for Sherlock, then why does your family continue to pay for 221B? Even when Sherlock was 'dead' the checks kept coming."  
"Well your place is like an old bee hive. Sherlock will continue to be drawn to it, no matter where he wanders off to. He can't help himself."  
"Bee hive? Charming. But didn't it ever worry you that Moriarty might find out? Mycroft keeping the flat paid for, and of course, his own Mother not bothering to show up to his funeral. If the goal was to convince everyone of Sherlock's demise, then you lot did everything wrong."  
"Hah." A laugh burst from Mrs. Holmes before she could bite it back. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson. If you had any sort of brain in your head, that should tell you something. No wonder Sherlock liked you, you're so wonderfully gullible."  
"If by gullible you mean trusting, like any mother should trust her son, then guilty as charged."  
"Trust? Oh lord, if you were Sherlock's mother he would be dead by now, or in prison. You have no idea what parenting involves."  
"Hmmm. And yet you have no idea where he is. Or if he is alive. You are simply waiting for him to fly back to the only place he feels at home. Not much of a parent, I would say."  
Mrs. Holmes stood up, spilling a single spot of tea on her eggshell skirt.  
"What is it, exactly, that you want Mrs. Hudson?"  
Mrs. Hudson gathered her bag and stood as stately as she could on her old dancers legs.  
"Please instruct your son Mycroft to have the door to 221B replaced immediately. It's been two months since his agents broke it open and no one has even been by to inspect it."  
Mrs. Holmes mouth twisted and Mrs. Hudson could see where Mycroft inherited his sour expression.  
"Will you do that for me, dear?"  
Mrs. Hudson paused by the door, half turned to leave, and waited. Sherlock's mother inhaled, exhaled and smiled.  
"Consider it done."  
"Lovely to meet you. Thanks for the tea." Mrs. Hudson was nearly to the main road when the black towncar pulled along side.

 


	18. The French Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets New John at the horse show

The French Pirate

"Horzez!"

Helen bent her knees in a toddler squat and jumped up. John let himself be pulled down and forward as she sprang. 

"Yes. HorSeS." John smiled at his daughter. 

"Horzez Horzez Horzez!" Her voice pealed through the air and other fair goers turned and smiled at the diminutive man, who seemed so much more, and the tiny bow legged daughter with the strawberry curls. 

John strove to keep his joy to a maintainable level but the fresh air, blue skies and rolling green of Gallows Hill coordinated with his impish daughter to make him feel as airy as the cotton clouds that dazzled in the July sky. 

Appleby Horse Fair. 

Every summer until his tenth birthday John's family had made the trek to Cumbria to gawk at the exotic caravans of Travelers and to marvel at the horsemanship of the riders. The year of his eleventh birthday his father killed both himself and a young couple in a drunk driving crash. The remaining Watson family: Harry, himself and his mother, never came back to watch the Gypsies show off their horses. In John's young mind, Appleby Horse Fair become another painful reminder of what he had lost. Honestly, he had never imagined himself back here, among the crowd of Travelers and even larger crowd of curious tourists. 

It wasn't until Mrs. Hudson had asked him when he had last taken a vacation, that John realized his Honeymoon, two years ago, had been the last time he had given himself a day off. 

Two years. 

Two long years, and yet they had flown by.

So much had happened in so little time. Marriage, birth, loss and divorce. Vacation days had been applied toward court dates and pediatrician visits. He looked down at his little girl, already forming simple words and walking (well, staggering really) and he was shocked at how fast his life was racing past. 

So he took a few days off, determined to give Helen some memories of her own. 

Of course there had been a bitter exchange with Mary.

"She's mine this weekend, John, David and I are taking her to the zoo."

Oh did that make him pin his ears. David. David. Bloody sodding David. 

As much as Mary protested when John asked for a separation, she wasted no time chumming around with David again. In spite of his relief at making a break from the woman who shot his best friend, John resented the implication that maybe David had been waiting in the wings, the whole time. And the idea of his daughter in her formative early years spending so much time with another man...well it set his teeth on edge.   
Every time Mary mentioned the man's name or said "we", John's blood boiled.

Mary kept Helen most of the weekends. 

"It's only fair, John, you see her all day, by the time I get home she's fussy and ready for bed."

John had to admit this was true. When he told Mary that he wanted out of the marriage he had done the chivalrous thing and took an available night shift at Bart's; letting her keep her old day job at the clinic working with a new doctor. 

John hadn't complained about the arrangement. He did see Helen a lot. John kept all his stuff at Baker Street now, but would pop over to Mary's house each morning to take care of Helen while Mary got dressed and left to work. 

After breakfast and a quick wash, he would dress her for the weather and bundle her off outdoors for a walk around the neighborhood park and then a tube journey to Baker Street where a cooing Mrs. Hudson waited to dote on her official granddaughter; spoiling the child with enough devotion for a squad of grandparents. 

John's vision had blurred the first time Helen had called "Ganny!" to Mrs. Hudson, unable yet to make the "gr" sound.

"You don't mind, do you John? I know she hasn't any granny's of her own, left."

"I'm grateful and delighted, Granny."

He had smiled, then hugged her. She once again was providing stability to all around her.

"Sherlock is right, you know." He kissed her cheek as he broke away. "England would fall if you ever left."

"Tea!" Helen prattled from the floor.

"Yes. It's your tea time isn't it dear. Let Daddy go take his nap and Granny will fix you some lovely pudding."

John felt so rich with his days with Helen that he didn't begrudge Mary the weekends. Much. Until David popped up. John realized that he needed to show Helen that he was also able to take time for trips to the zoo and exotic places -like the Gypsy horse fair. 

"Daddy" Helen chirped. John looked down at the child on the end of his arm.

"Yes?"

Helen wasn't looking at him, she was waiving at someone. John followed her line of site and found himself looking at himself. Only 20 years younger. 

"Daddy!" Helen called again, and this time looked up at John with her mouth forming a perfect circle. As if to form the word "who" or "what". 

John felt an uncomfortable niggling memory. One he didn't want to investigate with his daughter standing by. 

"Hello." The young version of John was leading a yearling colt, wait, was it a colt or filly? John glanced down and back up, yes colt then. John's mirror image was walking a shining red colt down the path to the lake. He had noticed Helen waving at him and was charmed enough to stop. 

"Want to say hello to the baby?" the young man asked. 

"Horze" Helen corrected and tugged John forward.

"Baby horse. Yes." the young man corrected himself, then softly to John said "Hello."

John was nervous at the quicksilver movements the skittish yearling was making and picked his daughter up. 

"She thought you were me." John said with a laugh in his voice. Helen squirmed and reached. Young John had a firm grip on the lead rope as baby human and baby horse touched; Helen's sticky stubby fingers and the colt's sniffing, quivering nose. 

Helen giggled. The colt snorted. 

John stepped back six inches as the colt tried to taste Helen's fingers with inquisitive lips. Helen laughed and curled her hands and turned back into John's shoulder for a brief reset of parental guardianship.

"Have we met?" John asked, unable to deny his curiosity. "I'm John Watson."

"Sandy." Sandy shook his hand. "I don't think so. Ever spend time at Maidenstone?"

John froze.   
"A few hours, but at night. I didn't see the town."

"So you must know me from your mirror then." Sandy laughed. John smiled. 

"Going down to wash your horse?" 

"I am." Sandy turned to go. "Come with."

"Want to see horse get a bath?" John asked Helen. 

"Horze. Down." Helen straightened in his arms and slipped off his hip.

"Okay, but hold my hand." 

They followed the red horse and the sandy haired man down to a lake crowded with horses having the road dust washed off them. John lifted Helen up to his shoulder to see better. The yearling was skittish in the new surroundings and half reared. Sandy spoke in a soft tone, using words John didn't understand. 

"Are you selling him?" John asked.

"I think my grandfather really just wants to show him off. He's such a nice boy, we may set him to stud in a few years."

Helen squirreled down so she could pat at the lake water. John stood guard over her.   
Sandy watched her fondly. 

"My family has the area at the foot of Gallows Hill" Sandy nodded to the East. "There are shows and food if your little one wants to see some of our camp life. My dya...mother...reads fortunes. Tell her I sent you."

John nodded. "Ta." 

Sandy splashed water around the colt's legs and used a sponge to wipe his back, bringing out a red so bright it was almost the color of embers.

"What do you call him?" 

"Barbe-Rouge" Sandy answered.

"Barbaruge" John repeated the name. Exotic sounding. It must be some gypsy word for something. He wondered if he would seem a prat if he asked.

"Sandy."

A baritone voice rumbled past him and John swung around as did Sandy to see the speaker. John's jaw fell open at the approach of a handsome Sherlock, his curls forming a perfect halo round his olive face and dark eyes.

Dark eyes. 

Not Sherlock.

John struggled to compose himself and reached down to anchor himself to his child. He nodded at the handsome stranger in answer to a violently bright smile. 

"Are you finished polishing that bright penny?"

"Just about." There was something achingly familiar about the way Sandy strove to hide his pleasure at the man's familiar, chiding ways. Sandy purposely turned his back squarely to the man, staking his autonomy against a force that could take him with a wicked grin.

John felt like an eavesdropper. He gathered Helen and called to Sandy with a wave:  
"Thanks for letting Helen pet your horse."

"Cheers." Sandy sought him out with his blue eyes and winked. 

*******

John felt more centered the further away he moved from his doppelganger. Each step carried him away from a scene of what could have been. A scene he was nostalgic for, even though it had never occurred. By his side waddled a person who never would have existed if the scene he just witnessed had ever happened in his life. His heart ached and he plucked Helen up from the ground and kissed her.

"Daddy loves you so, my little one."

Helen tipped back in his arms to look at him. She patted his face and he laughed. 

"Want to get something to eat?"

*******

 

"You know he's been in contact with him and you let him leave town?"

Mycroft was bordering on a snit, but Mary was always a step ahead of John, so he kept his voice conversational. Maybe there was no cause for alarm.

"This is innocent. He's jealous of David taking his kid to the zoo this weekend, no doubt imagining that Helen will perceive David as dad and John as Mrs. Doubtfire. "

Mycroft sucked his bottom lip. He hated when he didn't understand a popular cultural reference. Why must people use current events as analogy instead of speaking plainly in god's own English?

On her end of the line Mary grinned. She continued.  
"So in a perfect John Watson involuntary reaction, he bundled Helen up for an impulsive mid-week dash off to Lego-land or something. Believe me, I saw his face when I told him. He isn't planning anything."

"Still, you left a tracking device."

"So John finds a GPS device tucked in Helen's diaper? That would definitely be game over."

"But the car, surely..."

"I got the car in the divorce. So No. Let him run off leash today. I will call tonight and make sure my baby is alive."

Mycroft sighed.

"I don't like it. But I suppose you're right."  
He hung up, leaving Mary looking peavishly at the phone in her hand. She placed it back in its cradle. Picking up the top file off a stack she called out:  
"Mrs. Pennyweather, the doctor will see you now."  
******

 

Helen and John waited by the Flashing Lane. Each had a drink in their hand. John a cup of warm beer and Helen a juice box. Finding food for a toddler was harder than he expected. So many of the kiosks were selling spicy foods, or greasy foods. John didn't fancy a car sick child all the way back home. 

Helen's eyes had lit on a pink glass box filled with cotton candy and was making her wishes known.

"That Daddy" she pointed at every child walking past with a pink cloud on a paper cone. 

"Right, that's sorted." 

Now they waited for a gap in the horses to make their way across to the vendor.   
The wait was hardly intolerable. Travelers and their horses flashed past at trots and lopes, showing off their mounts style and confirmation along their own riding abilities.  
People lining the route shouted out at old friends and made loud comments as the parade passed by. 

"Barbe-Rouge" 

The name caught John's ear from a distance. It was repeated up the lane in voices explanatory or admiring or both.   
He craned his head for a look. A wave of exhaled breaths preceded the colt like a slow shock wave. He picked Helen up as the crowd around him was thickening. 

The shiny red colt came prancing down the lane lit up by the afternoon sun. His tail lifted and shimmering like a pennant, his ears pointed forward, he side stepped as though to deliberately show off his natural grace.   
John expected to see the younger version of himself trotting along beside the young horse, but instead the colt was ponied by a dour slumping man astride a heavy cart horse. John was surprised. Why have a horse that's lightening in a bottle tethered to an old cart horse? Then Helen lunged forward.  
"Baby horze"

John caught her mid air. 

That's why. He smiled. The cart horse never missed a beat in it's slow motion trot. The dour man in black, his face hidden by long black curls, guided the cart horse with his seat, calves and a single lead rope. The firey red horse was tied to a loop around the cart horses shoulders and had obviously learned the pointlessness of trying to break lose.

"Barbie-rossa!" a young girl of nine or ten called out from across the flashing lane. The colt answered with a clear high whiny that carried like a trumpet and caused the crowd to laugh and clap. The rider nodded at the young girl. There was something regal in his manner and John wondered if he was some kind Gypsy Prince. In a moment the colt passed by and John took advantage of the situation to dash across the Flashing Lane to the waiting glass box of spinning cotton candy. 

*****

Sherlock floated in a world of pure emotion. It wasn't his element, anymore than the great wide sea was habitable for humans, but like the ocean, one could exist on it's surface. With sharpened skills and a good ship one could even learn to enjoy it.

As a detective, Sherlock had learned to recognize and appreciate the fingerprints of emotion when it served as a motivation for crime. As a man of pure reason, however, he had often despaired of ever being able to co-exist with his fellow human beings. Sentiment. Feelings. Emotion. All were pieces of a language he could recognize but seemed unable to speak. Yet now he lived adrift in an alternate universe where passion and desire were the ruling impulses and somehow he found he could speak the language like a native. 

It confused him at first, how he suddenly could understand everyone around him, but soon, possibly after he was kissed on the cheek by a man he just met for the third time-  
Was it three? There was the father of the lost child he found, (wandered off to stand in a public rose garden -honestly was Sherlock the only one to notice the child's obsession with pink?) Then there was Sandy's grandfather when Sherlock concocted a salve that loosened the gnarled fingers on his arthritic hand long enough to hold a bow and play a tune on his violin, and just last week Ben's brother who had a letter from a long lost love but with the return address obliterated by water damage. (Child's play after a career spent studying stationery.)

-he came to recognize that it wasn't emotion or sentiment he misunderstood, it was the habit of polite society to hide it's emotion that fooled him. 

So every school mate who had punched him in the nose or joined in with the bullies or simply turned his back on young Sherlock for blurting out the cause of the emotion they were attempting to hide, had never been because Sherlock got it wrong, only that he had revealed what was meant to be hidden. Even as an adult it wasn't Sherlock's inability to see people's feelings, but his noticing that drove them away. He always blushed with shame when he remembered Molly at the Christmas Party. Of course he noticed she was in love, he just failed to notice it was with him until he opened his big mouth and stepped in it. Everyone had glared daggers at him, but honestly, if she had not been trying to hide it, he would have said nothing. He never spoke about what was obvious. That would be Dull.   
Here, among the tribe, emotions were on broad display. Anger, love, grief, joy, rage. Everyone honed their skills in expressing their feelings. They shouted and laughed and punched and kissed. Sherlock was buffeted about on his small ship of logic, but blatant emotion was it's own logic in a way and Sherlock learned to trim his sail to avoid the squalls and to unfurl his sails and run before the storms. 

He felt serenity in this extended family; something he had never felt in the battlegrounds of his own childhood. Sherlock doubted very much that any of these children running free around him would ever spend time in an institution clamping a rubber stick in their teeth while their toes curled and their arches cramped. 

 

Away! Away! Sails Away!

He struggled to compose his rapid breath.   
Fight! Sword in teeth as you swing from ship to ship on tops'l sheets. Feel the blood lust course through you like fire. Run the white coats through with your cutlass.

Sherlock, cutlasses are curved. You can't 'run a white coat through' with one.

Not the French cutlass Mycroft. They had almost no curve to them.   
(his voice was whiney and 8 years old)  
He sniffed and coaxed the cart horse into a slow motion trot. The spitfire colt shook his head and tried to run ahead, but the immovable resistance of the 2000 pound cart horse brought him to heal.

"Barbie Rossa!" A child squealed and Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment of the pure delight on the girl's face.

*****

"At long last. " John thought as he h  
anded his daughter her first cotton candy.   
Helen took it reverently, her tongue out already like a parishioner at communion. Her eyelids batted rapidly at the explosion of sugar on her taste buds.

 

"You like it?" John asked. Helen nodded solemnly and for once John wished someone else was here to share this with, even Mary. He took her hand. "Let's look around. Oh look, is that a bear?"

Half an hour later John and Helen had depleted the amusements available in the camp. There was an old bear in a cage who desperately wanted some of Helen's cotton candy and snuffled the air and reached through the bars as John pulled Helen back, then a Gypsy woman with a crystal ball and finally John had a helping of some kind of stew. Which was spicier than he would have liked and which was now sending him on a desperate search for a portable toilet. 

He found a row of blue plastic boxes not far from the cotton candy vendor. It occurred to John as he fought against the rising nausea that he really shouldn't bring Helen into the box with him. So he approached the middle aged woman selling cotton candy. 

"Would you mind just watching my daughter for a moment? I have to use the toilet."  
His white palor and sweat-beaded brow gave away the seriousness of the situation. 

"Sure dear. Something you ate?"

"Afraid so. Stay with the nice lady, will you sweetie." He looked up, "her name is Helen." that was all he could get out before he felt a twist in his gut and bolted to the nearest portable toilet. 

The smell inside the sun-heated box was enough to push him over the edge and he heaved up everything he had eaten in the last 2 years. It was mercifully fast, although he wondered if he might not have given himself a stress fracture in his short ribs from the strength of the stomach cramp. He leaned against the door, trying to compose himself so he didn't frighten his little girl. 

The noises of the Horse faire became more pronounced as the buzzing in his head cleared. He heard shouting and whinying. Then more shouting, louder, closer. And then he heard a sound that brought him to attention.   
"No!"  
It was Helen. He knew that tone. Her absolute refusal voice. What had she done now? Had she tried to walk away? Was the Cotton Candy lady attempting to drag her back? He turned and opened the door, then froze.

Helen was standing as tall as her 25 inch frame would allow. Her face was a mask of disapproval and she was turned to the side to protect her precious cotton candy. Inches away from her, mouth opened in a roar was the old bear. 

"Mine!" Helen roared back. 

"Give it to him, honey." the woman at the cotton candy cart pleaded. 

"No!" 

"Drop it, Helen!" John's words flew out even as he weighed the risks of rushing into a scene as delicately balanced as this  
.  
"Nooooooo Daddy!" Helen wailed and the bear roared and stepped closer. 

"Hey! Bear!" John stepped forward, clapping his hands. A stone flew in from a well meaning bystander, nearly clipping Helen's shoulder. John was vaguely aware of people banging pots, garbage cans, shouting, but it was far away, like a soccer crowd on tv. 

The bear snuffled the air around Helen's frizzy blond head and John's heart stopped. Helen turned her back to the beast, tucking her pink confection close to her sweater. The bear growled in frustration, then lifted it's front leg, it's claws extending two inches past the pink of it's massive paw and reached for his baby.   
John broke into a run, terrified that he had waited too long, a scream was forming in his throat when suddenly a shrill screech cut the air. John's legs stuttered to a halt and the bear dropped his paw and turned toward the noise. 

A strange man, all angles and elbows, bent at the waist and walking with exaggerated long steps scraped his bow across a violin tucked tightly under his chin. The noise was like nails on a chalk board. Then a long low note was drawn from the instrument and the bear, as if helpless to do anything else, began to shift his weight from side to side as the man began to sing in the most macabre timbre.

"Iiiiiiiiiiiif you go down to the woods today   
You're sure of a big surprise.

If you go down to the woods today  
You better go in disguise."

The bear lifted each front leg in turn now dancing without resistance, pink cotton candy pushed from his thoughts by the strange scarecrow of a man whose hair hung in curtains over his face and who spun and leapt before the bear, leading it away. The crowd, once tense and far flung, gathered closer -relief on their faces - and a few even began to clap in time.

"For every bear that ever there was will gather there for certain"

John scooped up Helen and pushed his way into the protection of the crowd, Helen clutched her cotton candy aloft like a pink torch.

"Because today's the day the Teddy Bears ..." the baritone voice stopped, waiting...

"...Have their picnic" voices in the crowd filled in the last lyrics and sporadic laughter rippled around John as he hurried his daughter to safety. 

He was two hundred yards away when he realized that the funny violin player was the same dark gypsy prince who ponied Barbe Rouge in the Flashing Lane.

He ran a further hundred yards before the singer's voice percolated down through his panic to register in his brain as a voice he knew.

"Sherlock?"


	19. Brig Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Mycroft found out.

"Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;

Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound

But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?"

Mycroft folded the newspaper with a florish and pulled another, already opened and creased to the section he wanted, from his overcoat pocket and squinting in the poor light of the oldest prison cells in London, read from the small print of the "missed connections" columns.

"I've no idea what you're talking about. But your transparency is why people feel inclined to fake their own deaths."

From the darkness of the cell in front of him Mycroft could hear the snort of a stifled laugh. 

"You deny sending these posts, yet you laugh at the reply?"

Silence returned to the darkness. Mycroft extracted a third paper, also folded to the same column.

"You saved my life, my wife's life and now my child's yet you won't allow me to thank you for it."

Mycroft pulled another and spoke without even looking.

"If I had done any of those things, no thanks would be necessary."

Mycroft dropped all four papers into a bucket of human excrement that sat just outside the cell before him. There was an angry hiss from the darkness.

"I did tell you, and warn you, and threaten you..." Mycroft's voice rose to a higher pitch as he spoke, he stopped and cleared his throat before continuing:

"All you had to do was tell me. That's all. But instead we are back to snickers and whispers and LIES!"

The silence from the dark was tense. He had the doctor on the ropes certainly.

"Where did you see him, John? I won't ask again, and you will never see either the light of day or the light of your daughters smile. Or tell me, and all this becomes just another bad dream." 

There was a long silence. Mycroft exhaled and shook his head. 

"Stubborn"

"He saved my daughter. I can't repay him with betrayal."

"Fair enough, Dr. Watson. I understand and applaud your "dog like" loyalty. But I did tell you the cost of your continued involvement with my brother."

Mycroft knocked on the iron door. As an outside bolt slid open he turned and smiled grimly.

"I am allowing you to keep the collar. Maybe it will bring you some comfort on one of the constant cold nights in this place."

With a clang of metal Mycroft was gone.


	20. Lysander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns that where ever you go, there you are.

"Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,  
Could ever hear by tale or history,  
The course of true love never did run smooth."

 

Sherlock woke to words being spoken from beside him in the bed. He struggled to recall where he had heard them and why he felt awash in sudden shame.

 

"'A Midsummer's Night Dream'. Not the bed time reading I would have imagined for you." Sandy spoke with amusement in his voice. "Who is your Hermia?"

 

The book. The one he had bought from a yard sale. "Complete Works of Shakespeare". His thoughts were stacking neatly. Why was Sandy...?

 

"How do you know I was reading that particular play?" his voice was scratchy from little sleep, but he was pleased that it betrayed no emotion.

 

"This piece of paper fell out. That's your handwriting. It's Lysander complaining about love. Who's is for?"

 

"You know the play?" Sherlock stretched and scooted up in their tiny twin bed. 

 

The quarters were far too small for two grown men, but they dare not expand without raising suspicion from the rest of the camp that Sandy and Paul were not the loving couple that they pretended to be. So Sherlock and Sandy wedged themselves into their twin bed each night cursing at each other's knees and elbows to convince the rest of the clan that they were a couple. 

 

Often, to get comfortable, they would settle into a sort of spooning position from which Sherlock would sometimes have to extricate himself when Sandy would rut against his back in his sleep, snuffling into his hair and moaning "Ben".

 

And sometimes Sherlock would find his gaze resting on Sandy's sleeping form and feel a rush of longing for someone else super imposed on his young friend. On these occasions Sherlock would take long midnight walks into the woods. 

 

More than once he had found himself, back pressed against a friendly tree, palm around his cock, populating the dark woods around him with a dreamscape of Regent's Park and a hand job from a desperate John Watson pressed hard against him, left hand clamped on the back of his neck, right hand working him like a pump handle. 

"Oh Christ, oh fuck oh God oh John" was what he said in the park, but in the dark copse of trees only a strangled moan escaped from his clenched jaw as he came violently, his jacket bunching up around his arms as he slid down the rough tree bark. 

 

Last week, after one such night, stumbling back into camp he heard a latch click and a whispered voice.

 

"Paul Sheffield?"

 

Sherlock smiled. "Grandfather?"

 

"What are you doing walking in the dark?"

 

"I couldn't sleep."

 

"Me either. Come and play a lullaby for me?"

 

"With pleasure."

 

Sherlock entered the old man's Air Stream trailer and settled himself on the edge of the kitchen table while Encio retrieved his violin from the top shelf of his wardrobe.

 

"What would you like?" Sherlock asked as he tucked the violin under his chin?

"O'Carolan." 

"Which one?"

"Blind Mary" the old man settled back in his arm chair.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=r5YzU_cKx

 

Sherlock nodded and began slowly to layer dream upon dream on the old man as he meandered gently through the Irish melody.

 

Sherlock would always be grateful to Sandy's patriarch for teaching him these old Irish songs. They were every bit as poignant as anything composed on the continent. He thrilled at the chance to wander a new musical landscape and imagined playing the songs for John, as an apology, or as a balm after a rough day. Maybe as a way to ward off the nightmares both old and new, like he used to in their Beginning. 

 

Thinking of John had him drifting from 'Blind Mary' into 'Captain O'Kane' and tears burned hot in his eyes as he envisioned his own young Captain bleeding out in a far off land and bravely facing his death alone. 

 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YIcxvt1-Rzw

 

Somehow Sherlock battled bravely through, resolute to the last note, for his own John deserved nothing less than his own best even if the emotions were ripping Sherlock's ribs open. 

 

As the last note hung wraith-like in the air Sherlock lifted his chin and gently laid the violin back in it's case.

 

"He was yours.". Encio spoke as if muttering in his sleep. Sherlock froze.

 

"The little man with the little girl. He came back. Asking about the man who saved his child." Encio opened one eye, shining with insight.

 

"A strange name, Sherlock."

 

"He was mistaken. I'm sure there are many people who look like me, especially at Appleby."

 

"He looked like my grandson, only older."

 

"There you have it, Grandfather. He thought I looked like someone he knew, you thought he looked like someone you knew. It is a common occurrence."

 

"The universe does not work that way, Paul. Sometimes, when you remove the impossible, what ever remains..." Encio smiled and sat up. 

 

Sherlock swallowed a lump of ice. 

 

"You look like Ben, Sandy looks like John Watson. He told me his name. He said he wasn't cross about the bear, he just wanted to thank the man who saved his girl. Do you imagine, Paul, that because I am an old man I do not know what happens in the wide world? I read newspapers. I even can follow a blog on the computer."

 

Sherlock smirked to hide his panic.

 

"I suppose "the one with the aluminum crutch" is your favorite? It was the Queen's."

 

"The Hound. I loved that one. It was so macabre. And I know that country. He described it well, your John Watson."

 

"I m sorry if you were disturbed by him, or me, Encio. Shall I pack my things?" 

 

"Of course not. This is your home, stay as long as you wish."

 

"Appreciated." Sherlock snapped the case shut.

 

"But, what about Sandy? He is not yours, is he? And you are not his."

 

Sherlock paused in mid-straighten, pursed his lips, then stood tall.

 

"I can't speak for your grandson."

 

Encio snorted.

 

"You don't need to. It has always been Ben he wanted."

 

"Well Ben chose another."

 

"As did your Dr. Watson."

 

"I must go." Sherlock turned abruptly, his ears flaming hot. 

 

"No. Wait. Listen. Stay."

 

Sherlock stopped with his hand on the door latch. 

 

"Paul. Sherlock. What ever you call yourself. You are family now. We will protect you from all dangers. Stay for as long as you like. Forever if you wish. But don't run."

 

Sherlock rested his forehead against the cool metal of the caravan door. 

 

"The distractions of this life have worn thin, Grandfather. They no longer protect me from myself." 

 

"Come here, sit." Encio waited while Sherlock made his way across the tiny caravan and perched on the edge of a crate that doubled as storage and table. He leaned closer to look into Sherlock's eyes.

 

"There is always a way forward, son."

 

"Not for me." Sherlock dropped his hands between his knees and looked away. 

 

"We will find it. Be patient."

 

"It can't be found. My choices are simply pain or numbness."

 

Encio patted his arm.

 

"Nonsense. Stay with us. Ride Emil, play for me, your fingering on Captain O'Kane needs some work. Come back here, anytime you can't sleep, we will find your path."

 

Sherlock stood. He worked his mouth until he could force it into a twisted smile.

 

"Thank you Encio. I should let you sleep." 

 

"Good night Paul." 

Sherlock walked stiffly out the door. 

********

"Yeah, I know the play. My mom likes Shakespeare and we watch it when she can pick up telly."

 

"But you memorized it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

"Well, actually, I played Lysander once in a school play."

 

"Hm."

 

"What?"

 

"I rather thought you were home schooled." Sherlock rolled on his side to look at Sandy.

 

"I told you. My mom married some North   
Sea viking chap who was always off on the oil rigs. I lived in Aberdeen until I was 15. Then dad was killed in a rig accident and we came back here to live."

 

"I'm sorry for your loss." Sherlock rested his hand softly on Sandy's arm. It was a platitude John would have used.

 

Sandy shrugged.

 

"I seldom saw him. He was gone months at a time. Dai would often bring me out here on holidays to stay with her people. Town life was too lonely for her. When he died, she sold the house and bought a caravan."

 

"Still, you must miss him, it's human nature."

 

"Sure. Yeah." Sandy shifted closer, to share Sherlock's pillow. "What bout your Dad?"

 

"Long gone."

 

"Same as me." Sandy rested his knee on Sherlock's thigh. "Is your mother..."

 

"Dead. To me. Both are, to be perfectly frank."

 

What was it about physical closeness that brought out confession, Sherlock wondered.

 

"Oh...so not really..." Sandy moved a lock of Sherlock's hair that had fallen across his eyes, tucking it gently behind his ear.

 

"No. Not dead. As far as I know."

 

Sandy moved closer, until Sherlock couldn't see him out of both eyes.

 

"You can share my Dai. She loves you as much as she loves me."

 

Sherlock's heart pounded in his ears. It was a thing with diminutive people that everything they did seemed innocent until it wasn't. It was how they snuck past your defenses. 

 

"Oh I hardly think that's true..."

 

And then there it was. 

Sandy kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose. An innocuous act. A tease. A bit of a giggle. Sandy was as warm as a fresh loaf of bread. His breathing was soft and quick. His knee crept up to Sherlock's hip, his calf draped casually on the backside of sherlock's thigh. His arm slid across Sherlock's short rib and settled in a loose embrace.

 

Sherlock began to tremble as if in the last stages of hypothermia. Alarmed, his breath came short and fast. 

 

"Easy." Sandy spoke to him as if he were a nervous colt. His soft lips kissed the tender   
skin under Sherlock's chin. 

 

Sherlock's thoughts tumbled all over themselves like 6 week old puppies. He could not decipher what was happening; happening to his body and happening in the moment. Were those tears? Running down his temples into his ears. The skin on his stomach flinched like Emil the cart horse's flank when a horsefly walked across it. Sandy moved over him peaceful as sun light, kissing his chin, his lips, pressing against the length of him, cock hard and curious against his loins. Sherlock inhaled and stuttered:

 

"What about John?"

 

No! He meant to say: "what about Ben?"   
Why had he said...

 

Sherlock made a horrible sound. Unmanly. Pathetic. Wrong.

 

It was the high pitched choked off wail of loss. Like finding the cooling form of a cherished pet. Running fingers through still vibrant fur and feeling muscles beneath beginning to harden.   
All hope gone.

 

No hope.

 

No hope. 

 

No hope. 

 

"Jesus, Paul. How long has it been, Mate?" Sandy chuckled.

 

Sherlock gasped. He opened his eyes in horror. His pajama bottoms were soaked, he was still pulsing, more was coming.   
He jerked up. Threw Sandy aside and swung   
his legs to the floor of the camper.

 

"I have to go." 

 

"Wait!" Sandy reached for him. "It's alright! It happens to everyone. Come back to bed."

 

Sherlock kicked off his pajama bottoms and used them to wipe himself roughly. Another keen was pushing up his throat: threatening to un-man him completely. 

The Devil knew what happened if you lost your head. 

He shrank from Sandy's grasp and jerked his levi's on over his still bobbing cock. He turned and grabbed socks and boots.

 

"What? Wait. Where are you going? Paul? Sherlock? Hey!?"

 

He yanked shirt and jacket from off the coat rack and shoved them into his back pack. Before Sandy could reach the camper door, Sherlock was pounding away from the camp barefoot, toward a beckoning copse of ancient woods.


	21. Shit Gets Real - Or Maybe Not Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With time time time to think, John comes to some realizations.

For the first week John waited for Mycroft to return. Sooner or later that giant bird would step back in through the iron door and ask John if he "was ready to comply".

John was confident in his resolve. He would tell Mycroft to go pound sand. 

Each day, and he knew days and nights by the lights being turned on and off and meals brought in, he waited monk-like on his cot for Mycroft to walk in. 

After five days, he was certain Mycroft would make a Sunday appearance. 

After seven days, he knew Mycroft would make him sweat out two weeks. John convinced himself of this and tried all the 'time killing' techniques he had learned in the army. 

After fifteen days John asked the guard who brought him his food when he expected Mycroft to return. The guard shrugged. 

When the night guard stopped by to collect his bucket of piss, he asked again. The guard responded in a language John didn't understand. John sweated ice water that night. 

Was he out of the country? Some CIA secret prison in Istanbul? Was this the end of John Watson? He decided to find out. When the morning guard came in with his toast and tea, John spoke up.

"Tell Mycroft I have information he wants and I'm ready to speak."

The guard didn't respond. He just took the tray from last night's meal and left. John paced for three hours- two steps and turn, two steps and turn- in his tiny stone cell.   
Mycroft would come. He would release John. Warn him off. 

"New mission, Captain Watson. Cancel the search. If you see Sherlock, run the other way."

Mycroft would not come. John would go mad and bash his skull in against the stones.

Both options brought John closer to panic. The one thing he couldn't allow to happen. John threw himself on his bunk and tried to control his breath. His heart beat even faster.

He leapt to his feet. He would take a walk. He closed his eyes and listened for traffic. 

There. A cab drove past. 

John used the last trick he had and imagined himself on a long walk. 

Today he counted the steps until he reached the corner of Baker Street. Eyes shut he stepped forward and turned, forward and turned. Then the steps to the cafe that always smelled so delicious in the morning with fresh baked goods cooling on racks near the door. Ten minutes were spent choosing in his mind's eye which pastry to buy and collecting his to go coffee cup with a smile from the cute redheaded waitress who flirted sweetly with him. Then strolling, bag in hand, past the iron fence and hedge rows of the park until he arrived at the entrance. 

Waiting for him is Sherlock. 

Not any of the Sherlocks John has known, but an older version who has calmed some of his youthful frantic vibration. A stone heavier, locks just peppered with the odd grey hair. Somehow more impressive in his steadiness than he was in his quicksilver youth. 

This was the Sherlock John loved. This was the man he had been waiting for Sherlock to become. 

Before the jump John had imagined that with enough badgering he might shift Sherlock into this man. 

When Sherlock appeared at his table in the French restaurant, for a fraction of a second John thought 'Maybe he has grown' until he noticed the fake mustache and the glib throw away line 'does yours wash off?'

He was worse, not better. In all honesty, that is why John went through with the wedding. Sherlock could not, or would not grow.

The train. 

Oh god the utter humiliation of the train.  
John stood there heart in hand confessing that Sherlock was the most important man in his life and Sherlock laughed in his face. 

It did no good to get lost in these emotional calculations. The solid stalwart man in the park frayed at the edges until he became the man who conspired with his brother to convince John that he had jumped from Bart's. 

It always came full circle. Sherlock under Mycroft's control. 

Find the stolen submarine plans.

Kidnapped by Special Forces to find The Woman and retrieve the photos. 

Back from the dead to find the terrorist threat that Mycroft could not. 

Back from exile to find the source of the Moriarty commercials. 

The park vanished and the cold stone walls of the cell took it's place. 

Sherlock would remain perpetually a child. Always the kid brother.

But...

He had changed. 

Sherlock was free of Mycroft for the moment. 

And John had changed. 

John, without influence from anyone, had divorced Mary. 

They both had made life altering changes, but on their own. Maybe Sherlock had never meant to abandon John directly, but was simply fleeing from Mycroft's control. 

How would he be now? The Gypsy Prince. Back in control of himself. Answering only to his own decisions. 

Now was he the Sherlock that John had dreamed of?

Was he finally Lestrade's 'Good Man'?

The dungeon cell became the living room at Baker Street.

Sherlock stood before him, arms open. Music played from Sherlock's laptop.

"Shall we?" 

The cell, as luck would have it, was the perfect size for a waltz.


	22. Out Of The Mouths of Babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise visit forces Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft stared blearily at the two-inch thick file of reports from the Far East Division. He was tasked with reducing it to two paragraphs in time for the quarterly meeting presentation tomorrow morning and he found it so very boring that it was impossible to keep his mind from wandering.  
Lately his thoughts had turned with greater and greater frequency to John Watson. The camera in John's dungeon cell sent a live feed to Mycroft's mobile phone. Ostensibly this was so he could keep an eye on the chap and monitor his moods, catch him the moment he cracked. but Mycroft had to admit that it had quickly metamorphosed to his chief source of entertainment.  
John Watson would have made a wonderful silent screen actor. Mycroft could actually read each thought that passed through his mind in his comically over-the-top expressions. He was watching the day that Watson realized that Mycroft wasn't coming back, and he laughed harder than he had in his entire life. The Pathos. It was delicious. John just needed grease paint tears to be a mime clown.  
The shock on John's face when the housekeeper had come in to retrieve the bucket and told John in Serbian that he 'didn't know any Mycroft' was an unexpected bonus. Mycroft took a moment to ponder what country John imagined himself to be in. Maybe it would be amusing to locate him in another cell and change the guards to Russian...no! Wait! Afghanistan. Make him think he was back in Afghanistan. Oh! Too wonderful. What Fun that would be! Maybe put a hood on him and walk him out once a week like he was going to be executed.  
He could stretch this out for years before it got old.  
He turned his phone screen-side up and swiped the live feed app.  
What?  
Oh. Really John Watson was a birthday, Christmas and Whiting Day present all in one.  
Mycroft forgot all about the Far East File. John was dancing. Waltzing to be exact, to inaudible music, with an invisible dance partner who appeared to be several inches taller than John, judging by the way John tipped his head back to look into the Phantom dancer's eyes.  
"Sherlock, no doubt." He said under his breath.  
How does a person even lose themselves like that?  
Mycroft had never once had any kind of fantasy. Even as a child. The first time he caught sight of his kid brother chasing around the front yard with a stick for a sword and a dog for a First Mate, he had assumed the worst. As Sherlock barked orders to his fellow imaginary pirates, Mycroft ran to their mother and exclaimed for the first (but not the last) time that Sherlock had 'lost his mind'.  
"No, dear. He just takes after your father. His mind is a little softer than yours or mine."  
"Soft? Like weak?" Mycroft turned this information over in his mind. Of course.  
"Well, something like that. He will need his big brother to watch out for him."  
Mycroft snorted softly recalling the scene. It was this weakness that held Sherlock back. It was why Mycroft was always a step ahead of his kid brother whether in deductions or schemes. It was what allowed Mycroft to so easily direct Sherlock's life into paths he should take and away from those he shouldn't.  
Until this hateful little Doctor arrived.  
Mycroft's one error had been in allowing Stamford to suggest the Army Doctor as a room mate for his suddenly rebellious brother.  
How could Mycroft have seen John's flaw? The crack in the man was so hidden. A spider web's thickness. Mycroft was hardly to blame for missing it. Not when presented with a man of science and fighting skills.  
Well no wonder John Watson and Sherlock Holmes made such a fine pair, they were both nutters.  
The door to Mycroft's office opened with a sigh as the door pushed across the carpet. Mycroft set his phone on the desk and picked up the next report from the file. Without looking up he barked:  
"It is still customary to knock, James."  
"Mycroft. What have you done with Dr. Watson?"  
Mycroft's shoulders pulled in close to his ears. He looked up as his mother swept into the room. A flustered secretary hurried along behind her forming the words 'I'm sorry' over the top of his mother's grey head.  
Mrs. Holmes slammed the door in James's face.  
"Well? Where is he?". She turned a withering eye on her first born.  
Mycroft deftly flipped his phone over, screen down and smiled like a cornered opossum.  
"I'm sure I don't know, mother. What brings you by in the middle of a very busy work day?"  
"Lying to your own mother?" Mrs. Holmes stood expectantly until Mycroft stood and rolled his £2000 ergonomic chair around to the front of his desk.  
"Here, Mother, take my chair. I insist.". Mycroft perched on the edge of his desk.  
"Now, what makes you imagine that I know anything about John Watson?"  
"Because that horrid Hudson woman says so. She won't leave me be. She's been to my house three times now. I may have to arrange a restraining order."  
Mycroft hid a chuckle behind a cough.  
"Would you believe, Myke, she told me to my face that she is more a mother to Sherlock than I am."  
"The woman doesn't know her place." Mycroft spoke in platitudes, but in truth he believed it so. Mrs. Hudson had always been far too involved in the Holmes brother's business. Suspiciously so. In fact Mycroft had her vetted shortly after his first visit to Baker Street. She seemed innocent enough on the face of it, but her refusal to let Mycroft into Sherlock's flat when he was out raised his suspicions.  
"I've always found her to be far too nosey. Really, she is just the landlady, What engenders such behavior?"  
"Well," Mrs. Holmes sniffed. "We should consider the source. I suppose that class of people have no sense of refinement."  
"Yes." Mycroft suddenly wanted a cigarette and a cigarette holder. "Exotic dancers."  
"No. I meant the middle classes. No sense of decorum in that group. Always in and out of each other's sitting rooms. Always grasping to move up, as though money could take the place of bloodlines."  
"Of course." Mycroft nodded, happy that his mother had forgotten her original...  
"So what Have you done with Dr. Watson?"  
...damn and blast...  
"Mother. If John Watson has shied off to parts unknown, he neglected to tell me."  
"Don't be coy, Myke. You have been using him to find Sherlock. And, according to the Daily Mail's 'Missed Connections' page, our Lysander has found his Hermia at last. So tell me where you have stored him and what your plans are."  
Mycroft couldn't help the flush of fierce pride he felt in his dam. Bloodlines were not just fairy tales. His mother had given him a share of her brilliance. He had done great things with it. Countries rose and fell at the behest of the superior intelligence she had bestowed on him. Sherlock was an unreliable vessel for his mother's brilliance. Flawed. Stuttering and stalling. An engine allowed to overheat and crack.  
"Of course, you found the messages. Completely insecure correspondence. A casual observer could piece it together in her sitting room."  
"Hardly a casual observer. He is my flesh and blood. But the question is, what have you found out from Watson? I'm guessing he is locked away somewhere suitably terrifying. What are you using for leverage?"  
"Time and unrelenting boredom." Mycroft responded with aplomb. His mother smiled softly at the un-remarked revelation of his original deceit  
"Is there tea?" she craned her neck about searching the spare office for a caddy.  
"I'm quite sure Anthea is..."  
The door swung open and Anthea rattled in with a tea caddy on a cart.  
"May I interest you in a cup of tea, Mrs. Holmes?"  
"Oh you are a dear. Yes please. And how are your parents?"  
"Oh you know father, if it's July he must be in Greece. It's just the one sugar isn't it?" Anthea stirred a heaping teaspoon of sugar into the cup.  
"Well you be sure and tell your mother I said hello." Mrs. Holmes accepted the cup with a nod.  
"I will do that." She set Mycroft's cup carefully on his desk before spinning on her left high heel and closing the door behind her."  
"Now that is breeding." Mrs. Holmes approved. "Why haven't either of my son's approached..."  
"Mother, I believe you were here for another reason?"  
"Yes. Dr. Watson. You've had him for weeks now. I need you to release him."  
"Mother, you are a very wise wo...person. The wisest. Person. That I know. But you have no experience in the dark arts of interrogation and extraction of information. Believe me, physical threats and torture won't loosen John Watson's tongue. He is like Sherlock in his stubbornness. But like Sherlock he can't abide boredom. Like Sherlock he will explode his own life to prevent tedium. I know best this time."  
"I imagine you have a live feed to his cell?"  
"Yes. And if i'm not available I have other eyes on him as well."  
"What is he doing now?" Mrs. Holmes was suddenly intrigued.  
"Waltzing with Sherlock at his own wedding reception." Mycroft pulled his phone out to verify, and his face flamed at the live shot of John Watson dry humping his cot. It had progressed to the Honeymoon with Sherlock stage. Mycroft carefully controlled his expression and placed the phone into his shirt pocket. His mother snorted.  
"Has he moved to the auto-erotic spell of his captivity?" His mother took a gentile sip of her tea and reached for a shortbread cookie.  
"Ahem."  
"Really, Mycroft, this could take ages, and we need to unearth Sherlock."  
"Do we? Really?"  
"Really what?"  
"Do we really want Sherlock back? We Holmes's have done well. You have your mathematics, I am the fourth most powerful man in the United Kingdom and Sherlock has contributed with his rather dramatic entrances onto the world stage. It is enough to make a lasting mark on the England. But Sherlock has never been wholly reliable, and now he seems to have reached the end of his usefulness. What would be the harm in letting him retire?"  
"May I remind you that Sherlock is the reason that Parliament isn't a pile of rubble. For all your reliable intelligence you could not find the source of that threat. Do you imagine you would still be the fourth most powerful man if you had that spectacular failure on your head? Do you think the name Holmes would be remembered kindly by history?"  
At this point Mycroft's cigarette case did make an appearance. Lighting the cigarette and exhaling a cloud of pale blue smoke gave him the few seconds of distraction he needed to put his towering rage back in it's box.  
Not fair. If he had not had to split his attention between work and being Sherlock's keeper he could have solved the case.  
"Smoking?"  
"What do you propose, mother? Shall I cane the bottoms of John's feet?"  
"You're overlooking the obvious. The child."  
"Whha..wait...mother, I want to find Sherlock too, but it seems beyond the pale to threaten an innocent child."  
"No, Mycroft . Simply interview the girl."  
"She is not even two. Her speech is limited to Dada and Mama. What is to be gained?"  
Mycroft imagined Mary Watson taking aim at him from behind a rooftop chimney stack for absconding with her flesh and blood.  
"A child of that age is cognizant. A descent therapist could get it out of her."  
"Mary says that all she can get from Helen is 'baby horse."  
"See, that's a start. Your little brother would already have a dozen theories."  
"The last time Sherlock had a dozen theories he cost the British Government a 600 million pound operation."  
"Because you withheld information. Remember what Watson wrote in his blog: 'One mystery in a case is enough. I won't have a mystery at both ends.'."  
"Ahhh, at last the urgency of your visit is revealed. You are a fan of John's blog and you need your next fix."  
Mycroft put verbal quotation marks around the word 'fix' letting his mother make any connection she liked between her addiction for Sherlock Holmes the Famous Consulting Detective and Sherlock's addiction to drugs.  
An icey fog poured off his mother, and Mycroft actually worried that he had gone too far. He tapped an inch of ash off his cigarette into a glass tray, grateful that his nerves had not shaken the ash onto the carpet, and fetched himself a fresh cup of tea.  
"Another cup, Mother?"  
She spoke as if nothing had been said:  
"Who was that therapist that you strong-armed into giving you John's therapy notes?"  
"I'm sure I have her name somewhere. Are you considering treatment?"  
"That's quite enough."  
"She isn't a child psychologist, she is barely competent for adults."  
"But she is easily cowed. And you have leverage over her; she broke client-doctor confidentiality after all."  
"Still, the wrong tool for the job."  
"The only tool we have, at the moment."  
"What about the Hungarian that used to see Sherlock when he was a tyke? Dr. Mengala was it?"  
"So droll- and Dr. Moran has died, sadly. Have Watson's therapist report to Barts day-care tomorrow morning. Say it's court counseling for the divorce proceedings. Then get my son back."

******  
"The Rapist."  
Sherlock's voice rang in John's ears. His eyes flew open and he searched the inky darkness of his cell for signs of Sherlock.  
"What do you mean? Were you raped Sherlock? Did something happen to you, at school? At home? Was there an Uncle... or a priest?  
A heavy sigh answered.  
"No."  
John groaned with frustration.  
"You're my subconscious. My own mind telling me something and I'm too thick to work it out."  
"You should write it down."  
"It's code! An anagram?"  
"Well, something like it, though it is your mind creating it and not mine"  
"Nice. Insulting me me in my own hallucinations. It would be easier with pen and paper."  
"Pretend it is the letters on your tiles in a scrabble game."  
John pictured the warped board he and Harry used to ply on. The blue and pink and red squares. He sw the smooth squares with the engraved black letters perched in their wooden pew-like perch. T-H-E-R-A-P-I-S-T.  
"Funny, it spells Therapist."  
John waited for the smart-arse response but the cell was eerily silent.  
"Sherlock?"  
The cell felt so close - like a coffin. John gulped.  
"Sherlock?"  
His pulse hammered in his ears. His chest constricted around his lungs so he struggled to breath. He shouted:  
"SHERLOCK!"  
"You are a conductor of light, John Watson." The deep sweet voice rumbled from inside his head. John wrapped his arms around his ribs to hold Sherlock in.  
"Don't go."  
"I won't. But we need to think."  
"Think. Yes. Let's think. Hold on. Therapist is the answer!"  
He heard Sherlock smile. 

****** 

"Next time you need anything from my child I advise you most respectfully to speak to me first."  
Mary smiled but her eyes were flint. Mycroft struggled to hide a shudder.  
"It was simply a controlled question and answer session, with a trained psychologist."  
"And I am simply the child's parent. How did you imagine no one from the day care would notify me?"  
Mycroft held up one hand.  
"Please, no offense was meant. It was simply a matter of expediency."  
"I told you Helen has no ability to tell us where John took her. She just talked about a Barbie doll."  
"Typical of the female, to be so attached to an unattainable ideal of the feminine right out of the womb."  
Mary's eyes flashed. She opened her mouth to retort when Dr. Thompson exited the day care door and spotted them in the hallway.  
"Well?" Mary and Mycroft spoke at the same time.  
"Nothing specific."  
"I told you so, Mycroft." Mary pushed the line with her employer, but under the circumstances Mycroft let it pass.  
"Just tell us what she did say." Mycroft said archly.  
"Well, Helen saw a baby horse, something that apparently roared or made a scary loud sound, oh, and a funny man who might have danced."  
"Circus, then" Mary guessed.  
"What about the Barbie doll?" Mycroft asked, desperation causing him to grasp at straws.  
"Oh yes. Barbie Rose. She was excited about that."  
"Barbie Rose?" Mycroft asked, pulling out his mobile. "You are certain?"  
"Yes."  
Mycroft spun on his heel and strode quickly down the corridor leaving Ella and Mary exchanging puzzled looks.


	23. The Burning Man and the Changeling Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally turn the corner kids. Thank you all who have waited out the two years this has taken.   
> This is not an S4 fix.  
> This is revenge for Mofftiss throwing my boys under the bus.   
> There will never be a universe in my head that has them forsaking their own identities to fit into some thrown together hash.  
> Holmes/Watson forever.   
> Oh this is not the last chapter. One more to go. But it will be faster.

OBERON  
Do you amend it then; it lies in you:  
Why should Titania cross her Oberon?  
I do but beg a little changeling boy,  
To be my henchman.

 

The idea of vanishing into the deep dark woods was attractive. It fit neatly with Sherlock's sense of the dramatic and it calmed his hovering paranoia.   
He dodged and ducked through trees and low branches and felt a little more centered with each passing mile. It wasn't like a chase through London, but the feeling of moving with purpose made him connect with the environment. He began to hear distinct bird calls and note the motion of wind in the canopy. His legs rejoiced at the rise and fall of topography and his mind searched ahead for the clearest path.  
Unfortunately, the wide, deep leagues of old forest that once blanketed England had been so depleted by ship building and farming that Sherlock had to satisfy himself with clinging to the wild bits of wasteland that still dotted the country and dashing across open fields between. 

By late afternoon of his first day he realized he was thirsty.   
This was a new wrinkle for a man who dwelt in cities most of his life. By some remembered lore of a childhood spent reading pirate stories he followed the lay of the land down at every opportunity- “all water runs to the sea” he recalled- until he came upon a tiny stream leading out of the forest and into rolling farmland. He found the deepest pool and risked a scoop lifted with his palm to his lips.   
He tasted of earth and a sort of minty tea flavor. Not terrible. He drank a bit more, waited a half hour and, when he wasn't seized by cramps, drank his fill. 

He wished he had something to carry water in and determined to find something tomorrow. Light was falling and he arranged some light branches into a pallet and some more into a covering to keep few off of him and promptly fell asleep. 

The next morning he struck out again, hugging the woods that framed the farms whenever possible. He wasn't sure of where he was until he reached a long wide stone barrier. 

Hadrian's Wall. 

"Welcome to Scotland", he mused. 

He walked all day until well after dark and then curled up and slept in a low lying hollow in a pasture that kept him out of sight of sweeping flashlight beams. He was still worried about Mycroft finding him but sometime during his stay with Sandy's tribe he had shaken off his fear of satellites. He wasn't certain if it was the company of faithful friends or simply being so far from London (and Mycroft) that caused the change, but one night when Sandy remarked on what a beautiful evening it was, Sherlock looked up and only saw stars.

The same stars he used to locate North. 

North to where? He wasn't sure. He might keep going until he reached the Arctic Circle. North was the cardinal point that took him the furthest distance from Mycroft. And Sandy.

Sherlock burned with shame at the thought of Sandy. 

It was never supposed to become sexual. 

Sandy loved Ben. Sherlock loved John. Where was their devotion if they looked at each other and saw their unrequited lover even as hands and lips and hips and cocks were held, stroked, kissed, touched? What did that make him?

 

A machine with an imaginative sex drive?

 

A sexual aid in mutual hallucinogenic masterbation?

 

A sad mad nutter pathetically rutting with the nearest blonde?

What did that say of his love? 

Sherlock felt nauseous. He held on to his love for John as the one noble thing in his life. The one true thing. So what if John had turned out to be a spy for his brother? The sentiment was still an honest one. It wasn't his love that betrayed him, but his brother hiring a man of John’s caliber to spy on him. In another life he and John would have lived an uncomplicated life of crime and carnal desire. 

It was, in fact, his constant desire for John that had led him to fall from grace in with his doppleganger.

"But only once." 

His words spoken aloud surprised him. 

"John will never know." 

He spoke again. 

Good. 

It was his voice -Sherlock’s- speaking, to the trees, as he used to speak to John. Gone was the wavering tremulous tightness that had squeezed his vocal cords.. His voice was melodious. Deep and charming and warm. It didn't frighten him. He was himself again. He paused, arms hanging limp, tipped his head back and exhaled with force. Sucked in fresh air, exhaled again. Hard. Oxygen flooded his system. He felt at peace. Strong. Right. 

How long had he been a stranger in his own body. Afraid of so many things. Shadows, satellites, himself. Things that seemed to exist and didn't. Things that existed but weren't a threat. 

There was no Moriarty, never had been. 

He knew that now. It had been a creeping realization. He couldn't place the point in time when he stopped believing. 

For years he believed everything about Moriarty. He saw Jim as the Napoleon of crime even when presented with an actor's resume at Kitty's apartment. John did too. He couldn't have faked the spittle in the corner of his mouth or the rage induced stutter.   
“No! You're Moriarty. You tried to blow me up!”

Evidence pointed to James Moriarty having a very long and lively existence, maybe one that continued still, but Sherlock no longer believed exclusively in evidence.   
Richard Bach was wrong when he said that Sherlock had hired him, but maybe he had indeed been hired by a Holmes. 

Sherlock started forth again, his thoughts ranging freely. 

John loved him. He loved John. This was another truth he knew but could not verify. The only hard evidence he had was himself. The rocket that exploded in his chest when he recognized John at Appleby's Horse Faire was proof enough. So was the thunder of his heartbeat that nearly prevented Sherlock from hearing Helen's squeals until the bear was about to strike. 

His subsequent surrender to Sandy was his body still needing John in spite of his being one of Mycroft's henchmen. Was there no hope for Sherlock? Would love be his undoing? 

“Odd he would risk his daughter on a case.” He told a poplar. 

How had Mycroft tracked him if not with John's help?

"It must have been the Daily Mail posts." he said aloud to a pine. “Although I'm not sure how that would have lead them to the horse fair.”

"Maybe I wasn't tracking you." John spoke from beside and behind him. “Maybe I just found you.”

Sherlock stutter stepped but kept his composure. Without turning around he answered. 

"Ridiculous. You just happened to show up at my camp in a gathering of tens of thousands?" Sherlock continued to trudge forward. 

"That's how we work, Sherlock. The Gods want us together. " 

"Hmmmph." Sherlock's heart thudded audibly. 

"You know this for a fact." John spoke with a gentle chuckle.

"I'm agnostic."

"Then fate, or some weird magnetism. Something brings us together. It's inescapable."

"You chose Mary." Sherlock's voice rose childishly.

There was a sigh behind him, audible over the crunch of summer grass under foot. 

"I wanted to get back at you. You hurt me when you abandoned me, it was Hell, I wanted you to know what that pain felt like. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry." 

"Why have you stopped answering my posts? " Sherlock whirled around. There was only a harvested field of hay stubble baking under the noon sun. No John. Sherlock staggered backwards for a few steps. The horizon tipped dangerously before he recovered his equilibrium. He turned to continue North, his ears buzzing.

"If I am not answering it's because someone is preventing me." John's voice returned at once, keeping pace with Sherlock. Sherlock scowled.

"Of course. Mycroft."

"Who else?" John answered. 

"I had sex with Sandy." the words were out before he could stop them. Terror crept up his spine, would John abandon him?

"I know." 

The sound of John's footsteps continued unabated behind him. Sherlock grunted to cover his relief.   
The lone dark figure marched on towards the next copse of woods. 

*****

 

Mycroft knew Sherlock's Achilles heel was logic. He waxed poetic on the subject to a John Watson - handcuffed   
and gagged in a harshly lit cell beneath his London office. 

"Left in charge of a headstrong, willful child I used rhetoric to control my little brother from the moment he could understand language. I observed that other older brothers used fists and harsh words to keep their charges in line but I was never tempted to go that route. I was seven years older, after all, if I couldn't control a child that young with words alone I would have to be a real cretin.”  
Mycroft paused for effect.

“It was ‘child's play’.” Mycroft smiled at his own pun. “ Once I discovered his attachment to logic I merely had to box him in with verifiable facts. Even if he was in the right he was susceptible to a faulty enthymeme.”

“Redbeard is not here.” Mycroft pitched his voice to a falsetto ; mimicking a young Sherlock. 

“True. A fact.”

“ ‘Mother and Daddy gave you the dog because they love you.’ True. Well, true enough. They couldn't tolerate his constant begging for a dog. But a fact nonetheless.”

“ ‘Therefore the dog has run away from home because he was unhappy with you.’”

Mycroft grinned at the fury in John's eyes. 

“Not true. Of course. In reality Mummy backed the car over the cur by accident but it was close enough to the truth to fool a child. And really, which is more cruel: that Sherlock thought his dog alive somewhere running through fields with another boy or that his precious Redbeard was dead by his mother’s hand? I was saving him heartache.”

Mycroft took a moment to savor the memory before returning to the present. He stepped away from John and began to pace.

"Our mother and father believed in a 'libertarian' form of child rearing - "He parents best who parents least". I flourished in this system. But then I was stronger. I used my nearly unlimited freedom to focus on achieving the highest marks in school, cultivating the most influential acquaintances, and winning every scholastic contest in our district. Of course I had to supervise Sherlock. With no paternal involvement his propensity for bringing trouble to the Holmes name would have prevented my otherwise inevitable rise to power. Sherlock imagined that my guardianship is what kept our parents love away. He didn't understand until later that it was the other way around."

Mycroft turned to smile at an impassive Mary, garbed in black from crown to foot, who stood mute in the corner.

"When my grades earned me an early admittance to a prestigious boarding school Sherlock envisioned freedom and more- access to the bosom of his parents unconditional love - he was to be sorely disappointed. Two months without Mycroft the 'proxy-parent’ forced Mummy and Daddy to recognize what a challenge their young son was. On his eighth birthday, after an emotionally frigid Christmas and an explosion in his bedroom set off by the new chemistry set he received for his birthday, Sherlock was sent away to boarding school as well."

Mycroft chuckled:

"We'll, I say boarding school. It was more a place people sent their spawn to be 'fixed’. By that time our parents had finally seen that their youngest child was missing a few bits. They found a specialist in Switzerland who was willing to do whatever it took to make Sherlock a real boy. Electroshock, experimental medications, isolation tanks… the doctor was quite imaginative.”  
Mycroft stopped his pacing and laughed.  
“Oh John if you could see your face. I believe that is a tear? So tender hearted. Too bad you couldn't extend that same devotion to your wife; you wouldn't find yourself in this predicament. Still, makes your job easier I imagine doesn't it Mary?”

Mary smirked but her eyes flitted uncomfortably across John's face before settling on the door.

Mycroft wiped the tear from John’s cheek. “Sherlock was missing the rigor necessary to appreciate the gift our parents gave us. Autonomy. Self direction. Ultimate freedom from mundane societal morality. He was always weak. He lacked the imagination to exist in a world without boundaries. He always needed something to lean on. Logic was his crutch. Rhetoric his cage.”

"Mmmm. Mmm mmmm" 

“What's that? Speak up John. Oh. Wait." 

Mycroft removed the ball gag.

 

“There. Try again. "

"You're the sociopath!" John rasped, "not Sherlock. "

Mycroft smiled and leaned in to whisper gently in John's ear.

"Was there ever any doubt?"

Mycroft sniffed as though catching a whiff of something unpleasant. 

“What was I talking about? Oh yes. Logic. Sherlock's weakness. He will be obliged to believe that you betrayed him when my men collect him. What other choice will he have? You find him at the gypsy horse show and then a month later he is back in the arms of his loving family.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” John cast a quick look at Mary in her cat-burglar clothes and watch cap; hoping to gage the situation. Mary gave him a cold smirk but he could see her eyes were troubled.

“I'm quite used to their constant lies. I dare say Mary is too. Just know that Sherlock will not miss the traitor who pretended to be his mate. He will curse the memory of you. That is until he deletes it from his hard drive altogether.”

Mycroft sighed dramatically.

“You have been a huge disappointment John Watson. A promising experiment that failed. I can't tell you what a delight it will be to never again see you perched so priggishly on your chair - sucking off my brother's talents, pretending you have something to do with his success. You sicken me. You're a pathetic wet dream to my brother. A distraction. You dull his intellect. He will flourish without you.”

Mycroft turned to Mary. 

"Will you please dispose of your ex-husband for once and for all?"

 

“You won't find him.” John shouted to cover the tremble in his voice. “Kill me if you want but he is beyond your poisonous monstrous reach you pathetic shell of a human...” 

Mycroft spun about in a sudden towering rage. He struck John with the back of his hand breaking the skin of his knuckles on John’s cheek bone. He was drawing his arm back for another blow before he felt the sting of air on split skin. Hissing he plunged his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Hah!”   
A look of joy crossed his face. Instead of cloth he pulled out a cracked collar.   
“I don’t suppose we have to discuss the irony of this do we?” he purred. “both of Sherlock's pets put out of their misery wearing the same collar. Let’s see if this still fits.” Mycroft moved around the back of John’s chair.   
“Lift your chin, John. Come on.” Mycroft yanked John’s head back by the scalp and slipped the worn leather around his neck. “You didn't know about this, did you Mary? A little mild masochism on your husband's part.” With a satisfying grunt Mycroft snugged the collar so tight that John was gasping for breath. “Too tight? Well you won’t have to suffer for long. There.” He patted John’s head. “Now Mary….finish this will you?”

*******

"You should eat something. " John scolded as Sherlock clung to a tree trunk. "You’re dizzy from low blood sugar."   
“Thank goodness you earned that medical degree.” Sherlock muttered. “Now if you could point me in the direction of the nearest fish and chips.”  
“No need to be so shirty.”   
“Quiet.”  
“Yes. indeed. Quiet.” John mumbled beneath his breath.  
Sherlock held up a finger and froze at the sound of steps crunching through the debris of the forest. A mumble of conversation accompanied the foot falls. Sherlock ducked low and wound his way between tree trunks and bushes until he saw movement ahead. He halted John with a raised hand.   
“What is it?” John whispered so closely in his ear he could feel the puff of breath. Sherlock shivered reflexively. The footsteps stopped, the conversation continued unaware of the audience. A woman spoke, projecting her voice as if she wanted Sherlock and John to hear.

"The king doth keep his revels here to-night:  
Take heed the queen come not within his sight;  
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,  
Because that she as her attendant hath  
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king.”

“ I believe it is act 2 scene 1.” Sherlock whispered to John. 

“ Sorry, what?”

Sherlock crawled closer, keeping a wall of brush between himself and the strangers in the woods.

 

A second voice, deeper yet still female answered:

“Jealous Oberon would have the child  
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild.”

Sherlock could see them now. Two women, late twenties, one dark haired and thin, dressed in a paisley tunic and stretch pants tucked into high leather boots, the other red haired and freckled, her clothing more subdued, white t-shirt black denim pants high top basketball shoes.

The dark haired girl wrung her hands as if in emotional turmoil:  
“But she perforce withholds the loved boy,  
Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy.”

The auburn haired girl made a dramatic sweep of the clearing they stood in:

“And now they never meet in grove or green,  
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,  
But, they do square, that all their elves for fear  
Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there."

“I know this…” John rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to keep his balance as he knelt next to him.

“They're changing it around.” Sherlock mused. 

“Either I mistake your shape and making quite,” spoke the dark haired girl, suspiciously cocking her head,

“Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite  
Called Robin Goodfellow. Are not you she  
That frights the maidens of the villagery,  
Skim milk, and sometimes labor in the quern  
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn?”

“Bootless or shod I make the housewives churn.” the redhead stepped forward with a crooked smile. The dark haired woman stepped back nervously. Puck stopped her advance, doffed an imaginary hat and with a sweep of her arm bowed nearly to the ground. 

“I am that merry wanderer of the night.” She straightened up effortlessly.

“I jest to Oberon and make him smile  
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,  
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal.”  
Puck feigned the trot of a horse, moving closer to the timid girl.   
“And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl  
In very likeness of a roasted crab,”  
She snapped the fingers of her hand closed in mimicking a crab's pincher and stepped closer to the entranced dark haired fairy.

“And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,”  
The red haired woman placed a soft peck on the dark haired woman's lips. A soft sigh escaped from the dark haired woman.

“And on her withered dewlap pour the ale.”  
Puck traced the fairy ’s delicate jaw down to her neck with nibbles and kisses.   
Sherlock was keenly aware of the tightening of John's grip on his shoulder and the press of his chest against Sherlock's back. 

“The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,  
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;” Robin knelt before the fairy woman her hands running down her sides and straying over her hips and down her thighs. The fairy tousled Puck’s red hair and laughed softly; her eyes shown bright with a hunger Sherlock could feel in his own gut.   
“Then slip I from her bum, down topples she...”   
Puck pulled sharply on the fairy ’s knees, buckling her legs, and caught her neatly in her arms and laid her gently in the grass. The Fairy gasped and caught at Puck’s shoulders.  
“...and “Tailor!” cries and falls into a cough,”   
Puck let the Fairy pull her on top.   
“And then the whole choir hold their hips-”   
Puck pulled the Fairy ’s hips firmly against her…  
“ and loffe  
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear.”  
Puck nestled into the Fairy ’s embrace; her right hand wandered under the dark haired woman's tunic.

“A merrier hour was never wasted there.”  
Puck muzzled the Fairy ’s bosom. The dark haired woman moaned. Puck kissed her breast and worked her thigh between the Fairy ’s lifting legs.   
Sherlock heard John audibly swallow behind him. He wondered if the women could hear it as well.   
Puck lifted her head and looked back in the direction they had come from. 

“But room, fairy. Here comes Oberon.”  
The Fairy groaned with disappointment and lifted her head. 

“And here my mistress. Would that they were gone!”

Sherlock fought against the impulse to applaud. 

“That worked pretty well, right?”  
The red headed woman grinned at the dark haired one. The Fairy smiled sweetly.   
“It's a good start. But maybe if you do a bit more plundering we might get the loudest curtain call.” The Fairy placed Puck’s hand over her breast. The redheaded Puck looked thoughtfully down at the Fairy.   
“As we should.” she said. “How is this?” and buried her face in the other woman's bosom.  
“Ahhh, ye..yes.”  
Sherlock stood up and turned away without taking great pains to be quiet.   
“Come on, John.”  
“That was A Midsummer's Night Dream.”  
He heard John scurry up behind him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and tumble him to the soft fragrant forest floor.  
“Obviously.” Sherlock flinched at the imperious tone of his voice. “Well, I only know it to be so from your messages to be honest. You picture me as the Queen do you not?”  
“Titania. And …”  
“Mycroft is Oberon.”  
“Yes. And I am …”  
“The Indian changeling boy. Pulled between the two.”  
John laughed. “ I was sure you saw me as Nick Bottom with the head of an ass, trying to find his way into the Queen’s bed.”  
Sherlock gulped at the implication. His bed...  
“And so then Puck… Moriarty of course.”  
“No, John. Mary is Puck.”  
“Mary?”  
“Puck was employed by Oberon to split up Titania and her changeling boy. That was Mary’s job. All along. And she was champion at it.”  
John crunched through the dry leaves behind him, silent, thoughtful. Letting the implications wash over him. Sherlock thought he could use a life vest.  
“You're right, in a way,” Sherlock encouraged John. “Moriarty would have been Puck if he was real.”  
“If he was real? I've met the man Sherlock.”  
“You met Richard Brooke. He was an actor after all, only not hired by me. Kitty was an investigative journalist, she would have run a background check on his story before she risked her career.”  
“Fucking Mycroft!” John hissed. Sherlock smiled at his sudden anger. John cared for him still and put him before all else.   
At least this John. The invisible changeling boy.

Sherlock stopped and sniffed the air. Cooking. Hot grease and sweets and butter and...   
“This way John...I smell fry bread.”  
“Fry bread. In the bloody wilderness… hold on. Is that music?”  
They hurried west. The long legged gypsy man in black and his invisible friend. 

 

*********

 

Mycroft watched the security footage with glee.   
Soon now.  
He hadn't imagined it would come to this.  
Well, actually he had imagined this a million times over the years but hadn't credited it as something he would actually get to do.   
The only disappointment was that John's death would not be at his own hand.   
Always he had day dreamed of John's diminutive body hanging in the air, legs kicking ineffectively as Mycroft pinned John against a wall, squeezing the life out of him. His long strong white fingers interlocking around John's throat. Oh the look of surprise and shock bleeding into terror and then fading to milky white…  
“Ahhh..”   
The sound of his own voice brought Mycroft back to the present and he opened his eyes wide and blinked at the screen on his laptop.   
Mary frog marched John across the smooth concrete of the loading dock toward the waiting van.   
There was sound, but unclear. John’s whining “Mary” was audible as well as Mary's strident “you brought this on yourself.”  
Where was the soldier's stoicism now. Mycroft knew it had been a front. Captain Watson had probably cried for his mum on the battlefields of Afghanistan.  
“What about Helen? She needs her dad.”  
“A child needs her mum more than her dad. I'm right hand to the man who is the British government. I have the means to give her a proper posh upbringing. Mycroft can get her in any school I want. My way is better.” Mary sounded cheerful and sensible. She leaned past John to open the van door and John wrenched his way around.  
“But what if he finds out the truth?”  
“John.” Mary yanked her pistol out of her holster and aimed at John. “You need to be quiet now.”  
“That you shot his brother.”  
There's was a flash and a echoing bang and John collapsed like an empty suit. Blood pooled like spilled milk on the concrete around his head.   
Mycroft jumped in his seat. He hadn't expected the opportunity to see John’s death. But as much as the sight of Watson lifeless on the floor thrilled him he couldn't revel in the moment because his mind was busy making synapses with this new information.   
Mary shot Sherlock? How did she even dare think that was acceptable? How did she imagine she would get away with it? Why had Sherlock kept it a secret?  
On the screen a grainy Mary dragged John's body across the loading dock and into the van. She hurried back out and slammed the door behind her then disappeared off the screen for a moment before returning with a hose. In less than a minute the blood was gone, washed away. It would need a chemical clean later, but for now no one would suspect a thing.   
Mycroft wondered if she even knew how much trouble she was in.   
There!  
In spite of her years of training she cast the most subtle glance at the security camera.   
She knew.


End file.
